


Queen of The Heart

by SharpenTheSoul



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon Snow deserved better, Jon is angry at Bran and Tyrion, Post-Canon, Romantic Fluff, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sansa and Jon ruling, Season 8 was terrible, Wolf Dreams, season 8 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-04-06 07:19:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 33,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19057906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpenTheSoul/pseuds/SharpenTheSoul
Summary: Sansa Stark cannot let Jon rot upon the Wall for saving the North. She vows to change that - and in the process, puts events in motion to strengthen both Winterfell and King's Landing alike.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should not start new fics without finishing old ones, but I had this idea tickling about in my head for weeks so I had to put it to paper. I hope you guys enjoy!!

THE REPAIRS to Castle Black were coming along well, Jon observed.

The aged and worn buildings had been updated with fresh paint, wood and other materials. The extra funds provided by Winterfell had enabled them to buy a large shipment of stone and begin making repairs to the Lord Commander's Tower, long since abandoned.

With the extra hands gained from – much to his embarrassment – Jon's reputation as the Savior of the North, the stewards had been restored to near-full strength and the general look of the castle was one of order and cleanliness.

Trade with the free folk, who had resettled Hardhome, Whitetree and other former settlements had brought in a nice amount of furs, meats and bones for the stores.

Returning to his chambers, he picked up a quill and began composing another message – this time to the Shadow Tower, to request an update from Commander Mallister on their own repairs.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Come in!” he called.

The fresh-faced boy who stumbled over the threshold offered a nervous bow. “Sorry to disturb you, Lord Commander,” he mumbled, holding a scroll in his hand. “Maester Yennick wanted me t'bring this to you..”

Jon laughed. The newest recruits always looked at him with a mixture of awe and fear until they had served for at least a week or more under him; the reputation of him in the south was still sour, and it was understandable that they did not wish to serve with a kin-slayer, king-slayer and oath-breaker.

“Thank you, Erik.” he smiled, reaching out to pluck the scroll from the boy's trembling hand.

Right away, Jon took note of the royal seal of Winterfell affixed to it. Something of import, he observed. Sansa's personal messages had never contained her royal seal; always her own personal one.

Six months had gone by since her inauguration as Queen of the North. So far, things were going well – Jon had heard of how she was rebuilding and restoring the abandoned castles, seeing to new and peaceful harvests and trade with King Bran and the Six Kingdoms.

* * *

He still missed her terribly.

Since the day he arrived at Castle Black once more, anger and bitterness had been in the back of his mind.

The horrible things he did – his murder of a last living relative, a Queen at that, for the sake of the realm – seemed to mean nothing given her eagerness to spread tales of his parentage.

Yet he still missed her all the same. Her smile, the way she was able to bring him purpose. The way she commanded respect, devotion and admiration from all around her. Her personal strength – having survived things he knew he would never.

The feelings did not help matters, either. Forbidden, lustful thoughts of her – of more then a sister. But she was not his sister. _Cousin, you fool._

It was wrong to think of the things he did sometimes.

He thought of her nakedness and wondered if her red hair was the same down below. He imagined the taste of her and how many times he could bring her to peak with his mouth. Most of all, he thought of being with her – being inside her – and the thoughts made him shiver.

“Seven hells,” he mumbled, slamming his fist on the table. It was not proper!

Opening the scroll, he scanned the message before putting it aside.

 

> _**Queen Sansa of the House Stark informs you that she will be visiting Castle Black and the men of the Night's Watch within a fortnight.** _
> 
> _  
>  **All preparations should be made to receive her and the royal party. The Queen will be staying at Castle Black for one week to see to the defense of Her Northern realm and the valiant men who guard it.** _

 

* * *

A royal visit. _Wonderful._

Being around Sansa physically would hurt as it did before. The last time he had seen her was when he boarded the ship to White Harbor.

That was hard enough – it brought back feelings of holding Ygritte in his arms as she died.

It would be hard to maintain the aloofness he needed to around her; if he allowed himself to feel more then Lord Commander Snow did, it would and could mean the end of everything.

This was his fate, his punishment; he was not a good person. Not anymore.

He deserved to be here. Alone and forgotten.

She deserved to sit the throne she now did; hopefully soon, her children would sit the throne after her and she would discover the joys of motherhood.

It was what she deserved – she had been able to play the game better than anyone.

_Even Bran,_ Jon mused. Both had manipulated him – that much was still clear. Yet he could not be angry at Sansa, no matter how much he tried. Resentful, yes, but angry? Never.

Bran was a different story. He refused all contact with the Six Kingdoms and its monarch, leaving such duties to the Lord Steward and Maester Yennick.

Bran – who had insisted time and time again that he was meant for more then lordship – had bowed to the wishes of Daenerys's eastern legions and sent him into exile, after seeming to have manipulated the dwarf into choosing him as King.

* * *

_So much for the pack,_ he chuckled somewhat bitterly.

Yet his heart still lay with her. He could not imagine a moment where she was not on his mind.

Jon found himself tracing the seal on the letter. _Would you bed your sister?_ He recalled Ygritte's words from long ago – a simpler time when he had less to worry about then royalty or Others.

He thought he knew the answer, but it was clear that now – well, things had changed. She was no longer his sister. She was his cousin. _Would you bed your cousin?_

That he didn't know.

* * *

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen arrives to Castle Black. Jon realizes he is lying to himself.

CASTLE BLACK HAD been prepared for the Queen's arrival. Great stores of ale, meat and other assorted foods had been either bought from passing traders or brought from the storage rooms on the Wall for the occasion.

Even the Free Folk – courtesy of the trading ships that now frequented Hardhome – had pitched in, providing several large jugs of goats milk for them to enjoy.

“Will it be enough?” Jon asked the First Steward, a rather large and portly man.

Looking up from the ledger, the man nodded his bushy face. “Aye, Lord Commander. We've enough food to feed an army of ten thousand if need be.”

Nodding, Jon looked back towards the gate. Soon the royal party would arrive and he would face her once again. His heart filled with a mixture of excitement, fear and longing. It had been six months – six long and agonizing months – since he'd held her in his arms.

Could he do it again?

It was a sorely tempting thing for him to leave and travel to Hardhome for the duration of her visit. The outpost the Watch had established there had yet to have a commander.

Why not him? At least for a month or so.

But no. _I cannot run from her. Could not run from her._

* * *

The senior officers of the Watch had gathered for the arrival. Jon took his place at their head, his palms sweating through his black gloves.

As the gate swung open, he watched with an almost detached gaze as the honor guards rode in, bearing the flags of House Stark.

It was when he saw the flash of red hair that his mind started to come undone.

Sansa looked as radiant as the day he had last seen her.

Her beautiful flowing hair, _kissed by fire_ – her blue eyes that shone like sapphires, and her skin as smooth as fresh parchment. It was hard enough for him to kneel with the rest of his men as she rode into the courtyard.

His thoughts flashed back to when she had first come here while fleeing from Ramsay Bolton.

She had launched herself into his arms then, the happiness and joy between them was palpable.

* * *

It was then that the feelings for her had begun to materialize. It was subtle, but the signs were there. How he spent so much time with her. Refused to do anything without her present.

Soon she was all he thought about. All he still thought about.

Now here she was. She left a survivor from a harsh and hateful man and returns a Queen.

Jon got to his feet, the rest of the officers doing the same.

She was right in front of him then, pulling him in for a hug. He laughed – yet his hands wrapped around her back all the same. She smells of lemon and vanilla, his nose told him.

He desperately did not want the hug to end.

Yet he was Lord Commander now; _to take no wife, father no children_. He had to maintain appearances.

“Your Grace,” he smiled as her hands brushed over his as they broke apart. “Castle Black is yours.”

 

* * *

TAKING A SEAT IN HIS CHAMBERS, she took a glass of the ale he offered. “I'm sorry it's not much,” he sighed, taking a seat next to her. “But you know how the Wall is..we are not well known for our food.”

She smiled, taking a pull of the mug. “Not as bad as you think. I have had much worse.” she laughed.

Her hand slid into Jon's own and he felt his head grow light. _Every touch is intoxicating_ , he cursed inwardly.

Yet it was the sweetest curse he knew.

They sat in silence for a few blissful moments.

Without thought, he began to run his thumb in circles on her hand.

“I...I should show you our ledgers.” he said, breaking the pallor. “The Queen must, ah, be interested in how we are spending the funds she graciously donated to us.” Jon felt the blush creep up his face; he sounded a fool.

Sansa placed her mug down on the desk. “I am not here as the Queen, Jon. I am here as Sansa.” she whispered, grasping both of his hands with her gentle yet firm fingers.

His mind swam once more.

The smile. The look. The touch. Gods, he was truly a fool to think he could maintain his decorum. She was just so... _perfect._

Jon could not breathe. Was the air growing hot? He could not tell.

“I want you to come home.” she said, her grip tightening. “I need you. The North needs you.”

* * *

Gazing into her eyes Jon saw the walls of Winterfell. He saw the statues in the crypts, the ancient Kings of Winter. He saw his father and mother. He saw what a future could be – children of his own, something he would never have now upon the Wall.

_A son I could call Robb. A daughter I could call Lyanna._

Yet he could not. “After what I have done, Sansa – you know it impossible.”

He – a kin-slayer, king-slayer and oath-breaker – was not something he would pass on to any children. It was worse then the false taint of bastardy he believed was his throughout life.

_I long for the days when Snow was the worst thing about me._

“You can,” she assured him, leaning in closer. “Everyone in the North – the lords, the soldiers, my own counsel – knows you did the right thing. She had to be stopped before endless war engulfed Westeros.”

Even still, she was Jon's kin.

 _I loved her once._ At least, he thought he did. What they shared...he could not truly describe as love. Yet it was more than simple friendship or familial ties. And I put a blade in her heart for the good of the realm.

No, it wasn't that. Jon could not lie to himself any longer.

It was for Sansa and Arya.

His nose filled with vanilla once more at her close proximity. “Still, this is my punishment as...as decreed by King Bran.” he sighed, doing his best to hide the bitterness in his voice.

* * *

Even if killing Daenerys was wrong, Jon felt the ruler and his Small Council caving to the wishes of her foreign army was worse.

His mind, his heart – it was stuck in a battle. Part of him cried out that yes, he deserves his punishment.

What he did was wrong; she was his Queen!

Yet another whispers of the unjust nature of it; how Tyrion Lannister had whispered treason in every ear he could find and yet sat as King's Hand.

“The Wall is sovereign territory of the North. Bran has no authority here.” Sansa replied, her bottom lip starting to tremble. “Please, Jon. I need you back. We...we all need you back.”

Reaching up to caress her cheek – against his will, why did he do that? - Jon shook his head. “You know I cannot. It would lead to war. The iron-men, the Unsullied...whoever else would see it as good enough to drag us back into chaos again.”

She did not flinch from his touch.

“Then war it shall be!” Sansa shot back, her breathing ragged. “The lords of the North will rally to you. They will not allow some foreign eunuchs to decide our fate or what we do with our people.”

_She is fierce. She fights for you._

He was close; too close, now. He could feel her breaths upon his skin. _Gods, I am lost._

* * *

But war? Jon would not allow the realm to fall into it again. “After what I have done...I did it to prevent that.” he exhaled, “I cannot just allow it to happen again. No matter how much I want to go home.”

 _How much I want to be with you_ , he would have said.

“Besides...” Jon continued, “I have heard news of the South. Bran is barely able to hold to power as it stands. There are rumors the lords of the Reach are rising in revolt. If the iron-men begin attacking, they and Dorne will likely join forces.”

He picked himself up from the seat – regretfully pulling away from her touch – and stepped over to the fire. He stared into it, imagining the future that could have been.

_A child to call my own. A family free of a bastard's taint._

“I want to go home more then anything...” he mumbled, trying to keep his voice low. Castle Black was not the same; long ago, the boy he was had dreams of joining the Watch, to escape the shame of his name.

Yet that boy was dead, stabbed to death for doing what was right. The man – Lord Snow, as some mocked him – had done was right again, and found himself back where he started.

Away from those who mattered. Away from the ones he loved.

Away from _her._

Sansa's hand on his shoulder pulled him free of his brooding.

He turned to face her. “I cannot risk the realm for what..what I want.” he sighed, the sting of tears bitter upon his face.

* * *

Her soft fingers rested upon his chest. “I can.” she said, her fingers tracing up to his chin. “And I...I want you to come home, Jon. Not as a Queen – but as Sansa.” He leaned into her touch, the fingers on his face like hot knives through bread.

“Home...” he moaned as her hands wiped free his tears.

Sansa nodded. “It is not the same without you.” she caressed his cheek with one hand. “Winterfell feels...so alone. So empty. The lords put on mummery for my sake, yet I do not want false words. I want the pack together.”

_The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._

His lips kissed her fingers as they passed by.

_Fool. You are truly lost._

“My crimes -”

She pressed her head against his, both of them exhaling sharp, hot breaths.

“- were not crimes.” she interjected. “You saved the realm more suffering. You are a hero. My hero.” Her body pressed up against his and Jon's heart beat rapidly, blood rushing to his head with every second of blissful contact.

His hands began to shake.

_I know what I must do._

It was then he kissed her, pressing his hands against her cheeks with passion and vigour. She did not reject him as he feared; she returned his kiss with a hunger he thought impossible in women.

Sansa's hands returned to his chest, her fingers digging into his tunic as their lips locked together, his tongue gently probing inside of her mouth. She moaned into him, his back hitting the wall as they refused to break. The heat and desire was overpowering; Jon felt drunk on something even stronger than the strongest ale.

_Emotion._

“You are the King I choose..” she whispered into his ear after their lips parted.

Her teeth raked against the soft cartilage, causing him to shiver. “I have the pardon ready with my things. Tell me you will come home...tell me you will be with me.”

He tried to remember the words to the oath. Yet he could not, despite how hard he tried to recall them – it was almost as if he were a babe again, learning to speak words he long knew. His mouth grew dry as she licked the nape of his neck, a low moan escaping his lips.

* * *

“Always, Sansa...” he gasped, shuddering violently as his body bucked the contact.

A sharp inhale greeted him as she pressed her teeth into his flesh; not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to hear himself moan out once more.

She broke off from his neck, pressing her lips into his own with the same primal passion as before.

Jon felt himself being pushed into a chair. He was not sure how they went from the wall to his desk, but he did not complain.

His mind was clouded with lust and longing; gods, what feelings they were! Sansa was all the more beautiful in these eyes then his old ones.

What fool was he to refuse her?

She was the Queen that the North chose. She had survived, endured, and persisted even when he was a _fool above fools._ Yet she still loved him.

His hardness pressed against his breeches as she undid the back of her dress, allowing the top of it to fall below her waist.

Underneath she wore a grey shift, her nipples poking through the soft fabric. A red blush crept up from her chest to her neck as she straddled him.

“I love you...” he groaned, his hands resting on her hips. “Sansa...”

He had always loved her. It was so clear to him, now. Even when he was bedding Daenerys and holding her in his arms – the one he thought of was Sansa.

* * *

Sansa, with the red hair.

Sansa, kissed by fire.

Sansa, the wise, the beautiful, the strong.

Pressing her body against him once again – he nearly bucked himself out of the chair – she held his cheeks in her warm, gentle grip. “And I love you, Jon..” she said, her tone full of warmth and trembling lips.

He could never leave her. Not again.

* * *

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa bestows Jon with something special. The North plans ahead.

The small bit of iron rested easily in his hand.

“I had it made for you specifically before leaving.” Sansa grinned, pulling her shift back on. Jon's gaze lingered upon her as he took in her naked body once again.

Her long legs, her slender waist...everything is perfect, _gods am I dreaming?_

His eyes returned to the pin. It signified him as King's Hand(or, in this case, Queen's Hand). Similar to the ones worn in the South, with the cold iron being more in line with the Northern ideals he so knew and loved.

_The winters are hard. But the Starks will endure. We always have._

Jon finished buttoning his vest, watching as she pulled her dress back on. “You did not have to, Sansa..” he protested weakly. “I would serve you in any way you see fit.”

She smiled that beautiful smile again, crossing the floor to wrap her arms around him.

“I know,” she whispered, planting a kiss upon his cheek. “But you deserve something that shows you have my favor.” Her body was even warmer then before, owing to the fire they lay in front of all night.

* * *

Carefully he pinned it over the top of his right breast, wriggling it about to make it snug and secure.

Sansa reached over to his desk and held up the scroll with her royal seal. “Your pardon. We need only present this to the officers and you will be free to return home with me. Where you belong.” she shuddered slightly, causing Jon to pull her against him gently.

“I've longed for this day, Jon. Ever since you left King's Landing.” she confessed, her voice breaking with sadness. “I did not want them to take you, I begged Tyrion and Bran for another solution but they refused.”

_How could I be mad at her?_

He still remembered the last conversation with her before boarding the ship to White Harbor.

_Forgive me?_

She had asked him with a look of remorse upon her eyes. He had ignored the question, much to his regret – too angry and embittered, really.

Yet now, guilt and shame washed over him as he held her, placing another kiss upon her brow.

“It is in the past, Sansa.” he soothed, “I am yours. Always.”

_She is the Queen I choose._

 

* * *

Jon's return to Winterfell was greeted with a wave of enthusiasm and happiness on the part of the servants, soldiers and other folk present there.

Many of them he had fought alongside in the battle against the dead, and they were happy to have their former King back among them.

It felt strange to be back, even though Jon had spent the better part of the last year here.

Sansa had saw the construction and repairs through fully in the last six months since his banishment, and now the castle looked as it did when they were young.

“...In conclusion, I have named Lord Jon Snow as my Hand.” she proclaimed from her throne in the Great Hall, speaking to a gathering of the assembled representatives of the North's houses. “He shall speak with my voice and act in my name when I cannot.”

Sansa continued on, looking to him with a reassuring smile. “Let no man question his loyalty, courage or commitment to a free and independent North. If not for him, we would all be slaves to the Night King. If not for him, we would all be bathed in the flames of the Dragon Queen.”

She raised her glass. “To Jon Snow! To the White Wolf!”

* * *

The room followed suit, cheers and applause breaking out between the clamor of cups.

The rest of the afternoon was given over to affairs of the new Northern state; the construction of new galleys in White Harbor was proceeding smoothly and harvests had been increased by a quarter with the return of the farm hands and spring season.

Jon watched Sansa command as a Queen would; she was regal, powerful and – to his eyes – perfect.

“I turn now to the Lord Ryswell, who has been serving as the North's representative to King Brandon in the South, for news of concern to us.” she gazed to Jon's right, where a young man with dark hair rose to his feet.

Ryswell bowed to her and Jon both. “The news from the south is...concerning, Your Grace.” he began, producing a parchment from his pockets. “The iron-men have been spotted flying ships up the Mander and rumours from Pyke say they are hosting the Unsullied at Castle Harlaw.”

Worried conversation broke out from the room. Jon bit down on his lip, exhaling slowly. The Unsullied had been the reason for his banishment, and if they learned of his pardon it would most assuredly mean war.

Some eyes turned to him as shouts of “He brings war!” came from one corner of the room.

* * *

Sansa stood, fixing her gaze to the source of the shout. “The Unsullied's return to Westeros was decided long before the Lord Hand was pardoned, ser.” she said, her tone hard and authoritative. “They would never be content with a Westeros without their Dragon Queen. I would caution you, ser to not speak out against the Hand again, given all he has done for us.”

 _I do not deserve this praise._ Jon felt a creeping blush on his face.

Taking her seat, she returned to Ryswell. “What else, my lord?”

The lord continued. “The Reach is also in some turmoil. A group of lords – who name themselves the Lords-Assembled – have published an open letter to King Brandon citing their dissatisfaction and anger with the Lord Paramount, this Lord Bronn.” he paused, taking out a scroll from another pocket. “The court fears that the region will enter open revolt soon.”

“Should that happen, it would mean catastrophe.” Jon found himself saying, rising from the seat Sansa had given him. “My lords, if the Reach together with the Iron Islands launched an offensive against the Six Kingdoms, where do you think their gaze would turn when a peace was reached?”

He saw the looks of concern appear on the faces closest to him. Stepping to the head of the Hall, he looked to Sansa for permission to continue.

After she nodded, he continued. “My Lord,” he turned to Ryswell. “You say that the lords are dissatisfied with this Ser Bronn only? Not with the King?”

“From what we can tell, yes.” the man affirmed. “Though rumors and speculation are everywhere in King's Landing.”

“What do you propose, Lord Hand?” Sansa asked, raising a slender eyebrow.

Jon folded his hands behind him. “When news of my return to the North becomes common, it is clear the iron-men will launch an offensive against us. We do not have the numbers to throw them back by sea, and thus they will be able to replicate what happened under King Robb.”

* * *

It hurt to speak of Robb; even years after his death Jon missed his brother dearly.“Yet the lords of the Reach have a powerful fleet still at their disposal. I will lead a delegation to meet with these Lords-Assembled and see if an arrangement can be made with them. Help them keep fealty to King Bran – and, in turn, provide us with support when the iron-men invade.”

Sansa looked to him, hurt upon her eyes.

Yet Jon knew that what he said made sense – for the good of the North, he would travel South and undertake this risk. “There must be a Stark in Winterfell, and thus the Queen should remain here.” he finished, bowing to her.

“Very well, Lord Hand.” she said after a long pause. Sansa turned to Maester Wolkan. “Send a raven to White Harbor informing Lord Manderly that the Hand requires his fastest vessel for travel to Oldtown. Once that is done, send a raven to the Lords-Assembled outlining our proposal.”

As the maester left the room, Sansa clapped her hands and the gathered rose to their feet. “Court is concluded for this day. May the old gods keep us and protect the North always.”

* * *

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gives Jon a gift - and a reason to return.

“Why do you have to leave so soon?” she asked him later, once they were safe in her chambers. “I have spent six months with you upon my mind, my thoughts and now you are back – and wish to leave again.”

Jon shook his head. “I do not want to go, sweet girl -” he kissed her hand softly, taking a seat beside her on the bed, “but you know that what I propose is what the North needs. If we do not have allies then we are lost.”

In truth he dreaded going south – to the wretched madness of politics and duplicity – but for the sake of his home and his Queen, he had little choice.

She caressed his cheek, causing him to sigh and lean into her warmth. “You have good reason to return this time, I hope.” Sansa teased, rising to her feet. “I have...I had something made for you before I left for the Wall.”

Striding quickly over to a dresser in the south corner, she pulled a small box out of one of the compartments. “Come and see.” she gestured for him.

* * *

Inside the box was a crown – almost identical to the one she wore.

Jon gaped in amazement at it – the same wolves and weirwood styling, pure as snow and reinforced with iron. A true crown for a new North. His legs threatened to turn to jelly.

“Sansa...” he began, at a loss for words.

She placed a finger to his lips. “Do you think I only had a crown made for myself?” she scoffed, “It was always you, Jon. I mean it. After all you have done for us – for me, for Winterfell – do you think you deserve to die alone, forgotten at the Wall? No.”

He felt tears forming at the edges of his eyes. “But...”

“No buts.” she smiled, taking his hand and placing it on the crown. It was smooth to the touch and warm, just as she was. “When you return – and you will – we will wed. And you will be my King.”

Jon came apart then, uncaring of how it looked. He sobbed, burying his face in her neck. She did not respond with mockery or anger, but rubbed his back gently, kissing his forehead. “Sansa...” he mumbled, the tears falling freely now.

He had not cried since his slaying of Daenerys, and that was out of sadness of needing to commit such a vile act.

* * *

Now, his tears were ones of joy.

At the foot of her bed – no, _their_ bed – Ghost watched them, the direwolf tilting his head at Jon's weeping. “I have already sent ravens announcing our intention to wed upon your return,” she continued as he began to recover.

“I don't deserve all of this. I don't...deserve you.” he choked, wiping his tears.

He took one of her hands in his and squeezed it tight. “Ever since I was a little girl and dreamed of the true knights in the stories and songs – I always wanted a prince from those tales to sweep me off my feet. You remember?” He nodded.

“I am not that foolish anymore, but – but I do believe that you are the prince from those stories, Jon.” she finished with a smile. “Or, at the very least, the closest thing.”

Looking into her eyes, Jon caressed her cheeks.

He never wanted to leave the room, let alone Winterfell.

* * *

This was his home, his sanctuary – his place of being. The place of his heart.

It was stupid for him to try and consider Castle Black a home once again; it had not been a true home to him since the traitors stuck knives into his heart.

“You were never foolish.” he said, his thumbs tracing circles on her cheeks. Pressing his lips to hers, he savoured the bliss of the moment of their joining; love was a feeling he did not think to find again, yet here he was – finding it at home.

Jon took hold of her hand, gently pulling her to the bed. “Before I have to go...we should enjoy the night together. The two of us.” he whispered.

In moments they were laying down, Sansa resting her head on Jon's chest.

“You are the Queen I follow...I would always follow.” he whispered as she pressed herself against him.

_Queen of my heart._

* * *

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon arrives in Oldtown.

The Oldtown docks were full to bursting, Jon observed. Ships of every type – from massive galleys to small schooners – floated at anchor, with captains and crewmen of every type of man present.

He saw Westerosi mingling with Braavosi, Summer Islanders and even some of the curious YiTish – men of the eastern lands – going about their businesses.

Jon had never been to Oldtown; though he had heard much about it. Looming high above he saw the faint outline of the Hightower, standing tall and proud as it had for thousands of years. He had to admit, it was an intimidating thing to be here, so far from home.

“My Lord?” a gentle hand jostled his shoulder.

Turning, Jon offered a weary smile.

_I'm just grateful to get off the ship,_ he noted. “I'm alright, Wallace. Just – this city, it dwarfs White Harbour in every way.”

Wallace Liddle was one of Sansa's Packguard – her Northern Queensguard. Adorned in white and grey plate, their shoulders engraved with snarling wolves, they were charged with the protection not only of Sansa but of any member of House Stark present in the North.

She had assigned Liddle to Jon as part of his guard. A freakishly large man, Liddle's girth was almost twice that of his own. Yet despite that, he was powerful and fearsome, with as much muscle as fat.

A fearsome foe and reliable friend indeed.

* * *

As the rest of the crew disembarked, Jon's honor guard fanned out behind him, Liddle barking orders for them to get in formation.

The southron air was foreign to Jon, even though he had just been in King's Landing not half a year ago. It was different now, he knew.

He had left a condemned criminal, sentenced to a life on the Wall for the murder of a Queen. He returned as another Queen's Hand, ready to broker alliances with potential enemies of the realm itself.

No one around paid them any attention as Jon and his escort walked across the docks. Wallace kept at his side, his large size scaring away any potential hawkers or pickpockets. The crowds around him made Jon feel uncomfortable, as he was not used to such a large population in such a tight space.

Even though he had been here only a few moments, Jon longed to return to Winterfell – to the walls and battlements of home.

To Sansa and her loving embrace.

To Ghost, who he had left to guard her; the direwolf would not have liked the Reach, either-way.

Still, he had a duty to perform – and he would do it.

* * *

“Lord Hand!” a voice called out. Jon's guards all put their hands to their blades, but he waved them away.

The man who called him was a small, elderly fellow, wearing a drab tunic adorned with the sigil of House Hightower. He sat in the front of a cart, waving at him. “It's an honor, m'lord.” he bowed his head, patting the horses as Jon stepped over to him.

“My name is Dyl, and th'lord Hightower trusted me to bring you and your party to the meeting of th' other lords, he did.” Dyl's bald head, dotted with liver spots, shone slightly in the mid-day sun as he spoke.

Jon and his men clambered aboard the wagon, Jon sitting closest to Dyl up front. “By your leave.” he said once everyone was aboard and seated.

The wagon jostled and shook as it drew away from the docks. Jon kept his eyes fixed on the streets. Oldtown was ordered and the streets were laid out in patterns, highly unlike the chaotic organization of King's Landing.

“...there you can see th' Starry Sept, you can!” Dyl was saying, enthusiastically waving to a great building obscured in the distance. “Th' Most Devout are busy selecting a new High Septon, they are. With what happened with the Sept of Baelor they ain't had the chance until now.”

Jon noted the smell of flowers all around him; while there were those in the streets hawking products – flowers and seeds among them – the aroma was far too strong to come from a few merchants.

* * *

_It must be the Reach_ , he thought in a bemused moment.

“Do you know much about what is happening now?” Jon asked Dyl, who shook his head.

“'fraid I don't, Lord Hand.” the old man explained, “Lord Hightower tells me to bring the Queen's Hand to him, an' I do it. Been in service of the family for four and ten years, I have.”

_A loyal old retainer,_ Jon mused. “What I can say is that there's lots o'Reach lords meeting at the Hightower, there are. I saw em! Oakheart, Tarly, Rown, even th' Caswells come down from Bitterbridge!” Dyl said, grinning a toothless grin.

Behind him, Wallace looked to Jon apprehensively. “Why would they send one old man with a cart to escort us, my lord?” he asked, keeping his hand on his sword hilt. “It smells of a trap.”

“They do not want to draw attention to themselves with too large a party.” Jon knew he would not get a large and grandiose welcome during a crisis. The Lords-Assembled would be cautious, subtle and as crafty as those versed in southron politics could be.

It was a wretched thing, to involve ones self in such an endeavor.

Yet, as he said to Sansa it was a necessary evil; the word of his pardon would spread, and the Unsullied and iron-men would sail in force to the North to take their false vengeance.

“I mislike this, my lord.” Wallace whispered, drawing his sword slightly from its scabbard. “At the first sign of trouble, I will be ready.”

Jon gave the man a pat on the shoulder. “No need for that, Wallace – but it is good to be prepared.”

* * *

As the wagon rumbled through the cobbled streets he found himself thinking more of Sansa then of the upcoming meeting. His eyes saw her smiling face and radiant red hair in every threshold, every passer-by, every trader selling goods and even every whore plying her trade.

The blossomed love between them was a motivation greater than anything he had felt before. Even his time with Daenerys had paled in comparison to this.

Every moment apart was like a knife sliding into his heart, yet he endured the pain knowing that he would return eventually, successfully and with an army at his back.

_What do I know of my heart?_

It was only now that he knew Ygritte was right; _you know nothing, Jon Snow._

_Would you bed your sister?_ Jon chuckled grimly at the memory. At the time, he thought such a practice abominable, worthy of only the foulest of men. Yet now here he was, bedding a woman he was raised to view as a sister.

_Half-sister, in truth._

That little voice inside of him again. He had heard more and more of it since his arrival at the Wall. It made Jon wonder – was that the only thing his sire had given him? Had he inherited part of the Targaryen propensity for madness?

_Is it madness to want justice for those you care for?_

 

* * *

He thought of the men who had brutalized and violated Sansa over the years – the likes of Joffrey Baratheon, Ramsay Bolton and Littlefinger. A hot rage burned within with every image of their smug faces he saw in his mind's eye.

Jon had been told about how Sansa and Arya had maneuvered and executed Littlefinger for his many crimes against the realm. A sense of satisfied triumph had been his reaction; he was proud of his siblings for doing away with such a reviled figure.

Now, it was his turn to help do away with reviled figures. The iron-men and Unsullied would not be allowed to threaten the North again. He would put them all to the sword to protect his Queen and her people.

_His_ people.

* * *

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets with the Lords-Assembled.

Jon studied the faces of the Lords-Assembled before him.

The five of them – four men and a woman – all carried themselves with the same dignity and – some would say arrogance – of those of high birth no matter what realm they hailed from.

Lord Leyton Hightower – who sat at the head of the others – favored Jon with a smile. “Now you understand the reasons behind our declaration, my lord Hand. We did not make this decision lightly, but the future of the Reach is at stake.”

He nodded. The lords had explained their deepest concerns to him about Lord Bronn in detail. Some of what he heard did not surprise him; it seemed the former sell-sword turned-Lord Paramount had hired some of the former Golden Company mercenaries that had survived the destruction of King's Landing and was using them as his own personal army.

“They call themselves the Blood Company,” Lady Talla Tarly had explained. Talla was Sam's sister; she had greeted Jon warmly with tales she'd heard from Sam in letters.

He felt a great deal of sympathy for the young girl; her father and brother had been executed at Daenerys's command, leaving her to command her House with none but the support of her mother.

“They are...not nice men.” she continued, frustration evident on her young face. “Last week, they attacked two bailiffs near Southmound, a village just west of my seat. The bailiffs had been preparing to geld one of the company for rape. Ten men-at-arms could do nothing against a hundred well armed men.”

Jon sat in silence, listening carefully to the complaints. “He has turned customs posts into an extortion racket,” complained Matthis Rowan of the Arbour. “Those mercenaries he has have set up 'outposts' near every major road, even when they have no leave to! From Old Oak to the Three Towers they are everywhere.”

“Yet, what can we do, my lord?” added the wispy Lorent Caswell. “If we send our soldiers to break them up, he can run to the King and demand intervention! His jackboots are already confiscating most of our crops as it stands. If the King should side with Bronn..”

Jon could not see why Bran would side with such a man. What does he see in this one? He tapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully, his every move watched by the lords. “To be clear, my lords – you are not proposing a rebellion against the crown itself?” he repeated the question again.

* * *

No matter his feelings towards Bran and Tyrion, it was crucial that his crown survive – if only to ensure Sansa's own survival. The collapse of the Six Kingdoms would give the iron-men and others free reign to pillage, plunder and attack.

_I will not allow it. I cannot._

“Not at all!” Lord Hightower emphasized. “We are quite content with King Brandon's reign, Lord Hand – once Highgarden is removed from the hands of Bronn and his thugs are quieted.”

As they prattled on about loyalty and love of the Six Kingdoms and the Reach, Jon's thoughts went back home. To Winterfell, where his heart was. He could not wait to be free of this place – the heat, even with minimal clothing, was stifling – and back in the North where he belonged.

His legs grew stiff and he gave them a gentle shake. “I propose the following arrangement.” _Here goes._

“I shall assist you – earnestly and honorably – to revoke Bronn's control over the Reach. By the old gods and new, I shall not depart until such a thing is done.”

“In exchange, I will be honest, my lords – the North has need of your ships and men. Because word has reached the iron-men by now; and mark my words, there will be longships and raiders sailing to our shores. Thanks to our battles against the dead, we do not have the numbers to repel them.” He said, turning his gaze one by one to each lord.

“You will select one of your own as Lord Paramount and swear to follow him – or her. Then, I will depart for home – with your ships and fighting men. When the iron-men come – and mark my words, they will come – I intend for us to smash them, root and stem.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room.

* * *

_Your move, southerners._ “If this is not acceptable, I will take my leave and depart – and your rebellion will fizzle out within days.”

From what he had learned of the actions of the Lords-Assembled, they were all gum and no teeth. They had made no real move to start their disobedience in earnest – something to draw Bran's attention.

The lords turned to one another and began frank discussion.

_Sansa, my love. I will see your crown defended. No iron-man will hold any castle in your kingdom._

Lord Leyton folded his hands on the table. “I...I suppose that we have no choice but to agree, Lord Hand. It is clear that we do need each other, especially now in this time of crisis. Yet – I believe I speak for us all when I say – how do you propose we succeed?”

“First, you must show yourself to be a true and legitimate threat – not with revolt or rebellion, but actions must be taken to show yourselves as committed to this course. Words are not enough.” Jon paced the length of the room, tapping his fingers behind his back.

“Set up your own check-points near Highgarden. Block every attempt by Bronn to bring in anyone or anything – loot, traders, even food stores. Do not offer any armed conflict, but do what you can to provoke and annoy him.” Civil disobedience was their best course of action, really. He knew Bran would not choose a military option – but Tyrion might, so it was clear they had to tread careful.

Jon let his eyes fall on the lords once again. “Stop payment of all taxes and incomes to King's Landing. Refuse the tax collectors. Send no ships to the capital. That will both deprive Bronn of his power and alert the rest of the realm of the situation.”

* * *

“Finally -” he tapped his finger on the edge of the table. “- send a raven inviting the King to Oldtown. Invite the whole Small Council, including Bronn.”

Lord Rowan spoke next, wringing his hands uncomfortably. “That is tantamount to treason, ser.” he protested, “If we do this -”

“It will work.” Jon said simply. “It will force the King and his Hand to come to the negotiation table and see if they can work out a solution. Once they are here, the sooner a solution can be found for all of our sake.”

“What shall it be, my lords? Shall we show Lord Bronn the power of the Reach? Or will you content yourself with hiding behind a letter I guarantee the King did not read?”

_They must choose,_ Jon thought to himself.

He knew the South was a den of lies and games, and thus would need to stay until the business was concluded – that way, he would get the support in the form of men, materiel and ships that were needed to defend the North.

His heart ached for Sansa, longing for her again. Yet he knew she was safe in Winterfell with Ghost at her side, and her Packguard. Still, the reason for his journey was to ensure the safety of the North – _her_ North.

_She is my Queen._

* * *

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon dreams and finds himself standing off with mercenaries.

_The thrill of the hunt was fading._

_It had been a simple thing to follow the scents into the forests, away from the man-castle to where the elk was hiding._

_It tried to flee but the jaws clamped down on its hind legs before it got far. It was easy then to devour, taking great rends of flesh from its belly and flank. The meat was tender and rich, tasting of the fear and scent of the prey._

_After having ate his fill, he returned to the castle. The stench of men was overpowering, always overpowering; the scents of prey was almost nothing now. Even worse was the fields around the man-castle as the scent of death was overwhelming._

_He padded into the courtyard, the men around giving him a wide berth. Many of them feared; it was good, the scent of fear. It meant they would not attempt to bind, kill or harm him on the hunt. He was used to the fear by now; men were fearful creatures when faced with one of his kind._

_Entering the castle he followed the scent up the winding passages and confusing inclines. His master called the castle “Winterfell”, and the albino was used to the scents and stones of the place – yet the dizzying layout still confused him. Why would men choose to live this way?_

_He padded at the door from where the scent was strongest._

_It was a moment before the red-haired queen opened it and let him in._

“There you are, Ghost. I was wondering where you had run off to.” _She leaned down and ran her hand through his fur. The red-haired queen once had the gentlest of his siblings as hers, but she was long dead; the albino smelled her grave in the godswood._

_He could smell his master in the room and on the queen. They had mated several times since returning to the castle as the scent of lust was strong in the air. It made him long for a mate of his own, yet he knew that more of his kind did not exist beyond his brothers and sisters._

_Once there were six. He still remembered the days as pups, when they played, hunted and lived together. It seemed so long ago._

_Now there are two. He could still, on distant nights spent far away from the castle, smell his sister far off in some distant land._

_He padded over to the furs on the floor next to the queen's desk. She sat and regarded him with her blue eyes._

“You miss Jon. I do too. But he will return, as he always does.”

_It was true that the sense of longing he felt for his master was strong. They had endured much together in their hunts of both men and beast alike. He still remembered the days of hunting and fighting next to him in the man castle called Black._

_His flank still caused some pain; a result of the battle against the dead men his master had warned of._

_It was the only time he smelled fear from his master, who was always strong and brave. Even though it had been some time since the wound, the last few months beyond the man-castle Black had saw him gain more scars from the hunt._

_His body relaxed as he lay on the furs, the feeling of being sated drawing the need to sleep upon him._

_There would be more hunting tomorrow. Until then, he would rest._

* * *

 

Jon woke with a start, sitting up in bed with a slight gasp.

 _A wolf dream_. He had not experienced one in many moons; his last one was over a month before he departed for Winterfell. Still, a sense of contentment washed over him – he was glad to know Ghost was doing well back home, and that he was protecting Sansa as ever.

The sunlight beamed in through the window in the Hightower where he was quartered. Lord Leyton had given him the use of his younger son's suite; the boy was at the Citadel studying to become a maester.

Reaching the desk near the bed, Jon began pouring over the ledgers and letters.

It had been a week since his arrival; since then, the Lords-Assembled had moved quickly, announcing via raven that they were ceasing payment of all taxes to Highgarden.

Reach soldiers had erected barricades near Highgarden; over a dozen at last count.

There had been clashes with Bronn's hired Blood Company sell-swords, but there had been no deaths as a result. At least, not yet.

Still, the message was getting heard. Most of the mercenaries had pulled back to defend Bronn's holdings and law and order was slowing being restored in the rest of the villages and hold-fasts they once tormented.

Angry letters had come from King's Landing on Bronn's behalf – mostly consisting of colorful expletives and threats – but so far, there had been no sign of movement. It was likely to change, however; a man such as that would not remain idle for long.

A letter had arrived from Winterfell, too. Jon smiled as he read it over once again.

 

_Dearest Jon,_

 

_I hope this letter finds you well._

 

_There is no need to panic; I am fine, as is the North. We are continuing to shore up our defenses as agreed, and the Lords and I have both agreed that seeing to building more ships is vital._

 

_Matters of state aside, I miss you. It has only been some weeks since your departure, but it feels as though you have been gone for much longer. It felt as it did when you departed for the Wall; the feelings of sadness and despair I felt inside were extreme, even for me._

 

_Still, your efforts are – and remain – courageous and brave. You constantly risk yourself for us, and I know some do not appreciate it even now. Yet they will; I promise that all will see that you, my love, care for the people of the North – so much so that you are willing to brave the treacherous realm of the south for their sake._

 

_Ghost sends his love, as do I. I long for the day you return to me. To us._

 

_All of my love,_

 

_Sansa_

 

Jon kissed the letter, running his fingers over the words.

“I miss you too, sweet girl.” he mumbled with a sigh.

The sooner this business was done, the better. He would return home with an army at his back – and the iron-men would not dare strike at his home and his people again.

_And if they do, we'll throw them and the Unsullied back into the sea._

Other messages were typical fare; a raven from King's Landing had brought word from Tyrion to Lord Hightower – who permitted Jon to read any messages sent regarding the situation – pleading for a resolution to the situation.

A bitter taste emerged in his throat when he read the letter. Any thought of Tyrion Lannister filled Jon with anger, given the circumstances of his banishment. Sansa had told him it was the dwarf's idea, and it was his influence that saw Bran's elevation as King.

_Has he not done enough to my family?_

Jon shook his head, wondering how he had ever viewed the man as a friend. From the day they first met, he should have been more cautious.

Yet Jon had been an angry, impatient young man; it was Tyrion who helped him understand the nature of his bastardy and he had been grateful for the guidance.

Now the man had done everything to undermine both him and his family. He had been banished to the Wall – the place of his death – while Tyrion had been elevated to Hand _._

 _Why should he sit in judgment of me?_ It had been Tyrion who encouraged Jon to act against Daenerys that fateful day.

A knock at the door interrupted him. Opening it revealed a serving man. “M'lord, Lord Hightower needs you. He says it's important.”

* * *

 

Arriving at the western gate, Jon was greeted by Philip Hightower, Lord Leyton's cousin and commander of Oldtown's City Guard.

Philip was a tall, lanky man, not like the more broad-shouldered cousin he served. “Lord Hand, it's an honor.” he bowed as Jon dismounted his horse. “I do apologize for the urgency of the situation, but as I told Leyton it's -”

“Critical, I know.” Jon cut him off.

Lord Leyton had asked for Jon's help in dealing with a volatile situation brewing at the west gate to the city. It seemed that over a hundred Blood Company mercenaries had arrived at the city, demanding entry for purposes of “tax collection”. When they had been denied, they drew their weapons and attacked several guardsmen.

Following the commander up the stone steps to the battlements, Jon kept a hand on Longclaw. In truth, he wondered when the situation would deteriorate into further violence; it was only inevitable when it came to sell-swords like this Blood Company.

“As you can see, my lord – they refuse to leave.” Philip said, gesturing out over the walls.

The mercenaries had set up at the gate itself and were using their wagons to deny entry to any – be they trader, farmer, or traveler. The guard had been pulled back inside the walls, as the Hightowers did not want to provoke further violence from Bronn or his 'men'.

Jon observed the situation carefully. The sell-swords were still garbed in the armor he saw the Golden Company wearing when they defended King's Landing, but they also wore a green sash across the left side of their body, denoting allegiance to Highgarden.

 _If we attack, our cause is lost._ Jon applauded the cautious Philip's choice to withdraw.

If the guard had gone out in force against them, it would have seen severe sanction brought upon Oldtown by King's Landing; it would also give Bronn further justification in his corrupt actions in the Reach.

The commander wiped sweat from his brow. “I had heard that most of these ruffians had withdrawn to Higharden to defend their paymaster's holding.” he grumbled, fingering his sword hilt. “Why would they come here?”

“They are trying to agitate Lord Leyton into making the first move.” Jon responded. He knew the southerners of the Reach held themselves in great renown, and the actions of some mercenaries blockading the most important city in the region would be wont to cause outrage and anger.

Let us end this. “I will speak to them. Open the gate.”

“Are you sure that is wise, my lord?” Philip asked, raising a slender eyebrow. “They would have ample opportunity to rip you to pieces.”

Jon nodded, making his way to the stairs. “Aye, but if they do their lives are fore-fit.”

* * *

As he reached the bottom the gate rumbled open and Jon stepped out towards the makeshift barricades, accompanied by a handful of guardsmen. The mercenaries eyed him hatefully as he approached, many of them reaching to their weapons.

Raising his hands, Jon waved off his escort. “I have come to talk, nothing more.”

One of their number hopped down from the wagon, approaching him. The man was about Jon's height, with light skin and dark hair, a beard covering the entirety of his face. He eyed Jon with a mixture of amusement and disinterest. “Talk away.” he grumbled.

“Do you lead this band?” Jon asked, nodding to the rest of the group.

The man snorted. “You know I do. Since the high and mighty Hightowers won't open the gates for my men to collect taxes, we have unfortunately had to seal off foot traffic to the city.” He gestured to the wall. “Defying Lord Bronn of the Reach is not a good idea.”

He was not an impressive figure. _Sanctioned looters._ “Lord Bronn's authority is not recognized by House Hightower.” Jon noted. “Thus, your own reasons for being here are not lawful and legal.”

Growling, the man moved to draw his sword – though stopped when Jon's escort moved to his side. “Lord Bronn makes it legal!” he snarled, “Now, open the fucking gate – lest I cut your pretty little throat and let my boys pretend you're a maid.”

“Charming.” Jon rolled his eyes. “If you harm me or any of the people of the Reach, your lives would be forfeit. Mercenaries or no, the soldiers of the Houses have greater training and ability than you.”

“Look, boy...” the man's hand turned white as he squeezed the hilt of his blade angrily. “I have a hundred men with me. Seasoned killers. We've fought up and down the Stepstones since you were in swaddling clothes. So I say again – open the gate.”

Some of the mercenaries fanned out, holding their spears and shields threateningly towards him.

Stepping forward, Jon shrugged casually. _They know they cannot kill me_.

If they harm anyone – spill any blood – all of their loot, profits and plunder will be lost, along with their lives. “Go on, then.” he nodded to the man's sword.

He felt the edge of the blade against his neck within an instant. Still he made no move.

“I'll do it! I'll fucking do it!” the mercenary raged, his hand shaking wildly.

Jon leaned into the blade, a small trickle of blood running down his neck. The man's hand continued to shake wildly, his eyes wide and almost bulging out of his head.

A feral grin appeared on Jon's lips. “I have faced down worse threats then you. So, do it.”

“FUCK!” the man shouted again, shoving his sword back into his scabbard. He glared at Jon, hatefully. “This isn't over, pretty boy. We will be back with more numbers and get this gate open one way or another. You watch!”

The mercenaries began to file away, moving their wagons off the road and dismantling their makeshift barricades. As Jon turned around, Commander Philip rushed out, his face pale.

“Are you alright, Lord Hand?” he asked, looking to his neck.

Jon shrugged, wiping the blood. A slight pain greeted him. “A gamble, Commander.”

Thankfully, it worked. Jon's stomach felt as tight as a shield. _Sansa would never have forgiven me if I ended up dead at the hands of a drunken mercenary._

* * *

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Jon knelt before the heart tree, its leaves swaying gently in the mid-day wind. He gazed up at the face carved into it – a wide, joyful grin – and allowed himself a smile.

Hightower's godswood was small and compact, about the size of a small bedroom.

Aside from grass, the heart tree was the only piece of flora present. Still, he was grateful to have the opportunity to be in the presence of the old gods.

“I miss her.” he whispered, raising a hand to the tree. “Sansa. The Queen in the North. Watch over her and the Kingdom.”

After the incident with the mercenaries yesterday, Jon was still somewhat rattled. He was a soldier, it was true, but every time he faced death in the past it was with nothing personal on the line save for his own life.

This was different.

He had to return to Sansa. He owed it to her, she who pardoned him, who stood by him when others turned their back – she who _loved him._

She had taken a great risk to both herself and the people of the North in pardoning him. Jon knew that the iron-men and Unsullied would promptly begin raising levies and attacking the new found kingdom, and it was highly likely no aid would come from King's Landing.

The tree continued to sway, and Jon thought for a moment he could feel his father's gods around him. He remembered the earliest lessons taught to him about them at the foot of Winterfell's heart tree; he and Robb were five years old and on their father's lap as he explained the nameless gods of the North.

The memory made him smile. Even though both men were years dead, he still felt their spirits around him when in places like these.

_I hope you are proud of me, Father. I hope I am worthy of Sansa and the love she has for me. I hope you are proud of me, Robb. I have always tried to be worthy of you as a brother and friend. You deserved so much better and I am so sorry I was not there._

He would have died with Robb without hesitation. Yet his vows to the Watch had stopped him from avenging his father's murder.

 _It does no good to think of the past,_ he reasoned. _The future calls – and I must make sure we are able to answer._

* * *

“Am I interrupting?” a female voice asked from the door. Jon rose to his feet and turned to face the source of the voice.

It was Talla Tarly, Lady of Horn Hill and Sam's younger sister. “Not at all, my lady.” Jon bowed, seating himself on the rock next to the tree. “I was just offering prayer to the old gods.”

She walked over to the tree and gazed up at it. “Ah, yes. The North follow the old gods, of course.” She looked around the small godswood and frowned. “I am sorry that your prayer space is so....limited.”

Jon laughed, gesturing to the empty space on the rock. “It is no trouble! I am only grateful to have found a godswood here. I have heard some castles in the south do not even posses a heart tree any longer.”

She joined him, smoothing out her dress as she sat. “Horn Hill has a godswood. It is quite beautiful. When I was a girl, Sam and I would play among the trees and shrubs there. We had hours of fun.” she gazed over at the tree once again. “The heart tree there is much bigger. It's face is somewhat more...solemn.”

“Most of them are.” Jon agreed. “Though, it is refreshing to find one with a joyous expression such as this one.”

To Jon, Talla looked far older then she was. It was as though she held a great weight upon her shoulders, and Jon could not blame her for feeling such.

Her father and brother had been executed by order of Daenerys after they refused to submit to her, and Sam's vows to the Watch made her the Lady of House Tarly.

_Such a burden is overwhelming._

“I wanted to thank you for what you did yesterday. With the mercenaries.” she said after a moment of silence. “You risked your life to protect a southern city you have no investment in.”

Jon shook his head. It was true enough for him that Oldtown held no real memories or treasures that would inspire him to fight – but the simple truth was that the North needed the Lords-Assembled, their fighting men and their galleys to defend themselves.

“It was a gamble. I knew that men like that could not risk murdering anyone – especially those who had not taken up swords against them.” he replied, trying to sound casual.

Talla looked astonished. “The fact men do things such as that will always both scare and impress me, I must confess.” she laughed. “Still – word from the capital is that Bronn is humiliated and is planning on returning right away.”

“Good.” A sell-sword given a position of power as he was, Bronn needed to command fear if he was to hold onto it. Showing that his hired thugs were weak and indecisive would strike a blow against him in that regard.

She turned to face him, placing her hands upon her lap. “Truly, my lord – I wanted to speak to you honestly about something. About the Dragon Queen.”

His stomach tightened again. “I...I am not one to refuse, Lady Tarly.” he said slowly.

Jon had no wish to speak of her in truth, due to the raw feelings that emerged from such words. He had done what he did for the necessity of the realm – and had been granted exile for it.

“I know you view yourself a criminal due to what you did. But I wanted to say that no one believes you such a man.” she explained, her tone gentle and understanding. “All of us – the lords and ladies of the Reach – know that she would not have stopped with King's Landing. Anyone who opposed her would have found themselves facing down the fires of her dragon.”

“I...I am aware of such.” Jon sighed, “Still. What I did was...it was dishonorable.” Yet all he could think about when he plunged the dagger into her heart was of Sansa and Arya.

Of how they would be the next victims of her reign.

Talla continued on. “You are a hero. A blasted hero, to all of us. Being sent to the Wall for saving Westeros from a madwoman? I do not even know where to begin.”

“I am no hero, my lady. I am just a man.” Jon felt himself flush at her words. Part of him – the ambitious part deep inside – was grateful for some recognition. But that was not who he was.

“Sam thinks so.” she said, surprising him. “He and I still send letters back and forth. He speaks of how unjust he feels you were treated. Considering you saved the realm and everything. In your own way, you avenged my family on top of that.”

Jon patted her hand gently. “Your family suffered greatly, Lady Tarly. But I have no doubt you and Sam will be able to overcome this. If you need a sympathetic ear, I am always apt to listen. Your seven gods know I did so with your brother.” he laughed.

“I am grateful, my lord.” she smiled, rising off the rock. “I should go to the rookery. I need to send a letter off to Horn Hill and summon our men-at-arms.”

As she went inside, Jon turned back to the heart tree. His thoughts went back to Sansa.

 

* * *

If given a choice in repeating the actions he did, even as dishonorable as they made him feel, he would do it all over again.

 _All to protect you, my Queen_. No Targaryen would harm her or Arya – not even one he once begrudgingly felt some affection for.

After this is done, they would marry. Jon felt his stomach turn again at the thought. I would be King-consort. As much as the thought made him nervous – the burdens of leadership was something he wanted to cast aside forever – the idea of being with Sansa, side by side and ruling helped to put him somewhat at ease.

He inhaled deep of the air.

It was nice to breathe the warm air of the south, even briefly.

The cold winter of the Wall had been bitter in his lungs, even if he had once desired nothing more then to take the black and serve in the Watch.

He had ensured a new Lord Commander was chosen by the remaining brothers before departing with Sansa; yet now as he thought of that forsaken place he felt nothing but anger once again.

Not at the Watch, but at Bran and Tyrion.

At least he still had Sansa. And Arya, wherever she was in the world.

The thoughts in his mind's eye turned to the future once again.

_A son of my own. A son we could call Robb._

He did not know if Sansa wanted children, however; yet if she did he would do his best to provide her with as many as she wanted.

If she did not, he would respect her wishes – someone had to. The men in her life had not done so and he was not going to turn out to be the same as they were.

It was not good to let his mind wander, he realized. _I have to think of the task ahead – Bronn and Bran will be arriving soon. I must be ready to confront them about the situation here._

As he left the godswood, heading for his chambers, he thought again of the grinning heart tree and smiled.

_Perhaps it was a sign._

* * *

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, I work midnight's so I spend a lot of time asleep. Will do my best to power on though!!

Bronn's face was beet red as he slammed his fist onto the table. “I am Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Reach both, by decree of King Bran!” he exclaimed angrily. “Your actions against my lordship are fuckin' treason! And I think you boys know how treason is rewarded.”

Jon had to laugh at the spectacle unfolding before him.

The man had arrived ahead of the King and the rest of the Small Council, raging and demanding all the way. Now, before the rest of the Lords-Assembled he was still raging and demanding.

_This is the Lord of the Reach? He is more suited to a life of banditry._

“We are loyal to King Brandon, unlike you, ser.” Lord Leyton spat, prompting words of agreement from the others. “While your thugs run rampant around our castles, towns and cities – stealing, raping and threatening as they go – we have tried to reach an accord with King's Landing to little avail.”

Snorting contemptuously, Bronn glared hatefully at the Lord of Oldtown. “You lot are just jealous of me, I think. You're not happy that the richest castle in the Reach went to someone who wasn't a high-born twat like yourselves.”

“It has nothing to do with birth!” shouted Lord Rowan. “It has to do with your rule. You take from our people's mouths! Your Blood Company has taken almost all of the year's harvest! Many times, threatening our people with their weapons if they resist. What are we to feed our small-folk with?”

“You know that the reconstruction o'King' Landing takes priority over your grubby mouths.” he growled. “Most of that food is sold so we can fund the repairs since you lot aren't eager to give us the funds to do it.”

Lord Leyton held up a scroll. “Then why is it that we have proof a loan was taken out with the Iron Bank – a loan with outrageous terms, may I add? If funds are what the crown requires, the Bank of Oldtown would be more then willing to reach accommodation.”

“That's just a piece of paper.” Bronn shot back. “Them Braavosi twats will get paid when they get paid.”

Jon outwardly laughed at this, prompting the man to turn to him. “Something funny, bastard?”

He rose to his feet, still chuckling. “Aye, ser. You.” Jon shook his head, glancing to Lord Leyton. “You do realize the concept of payments and loans, do you not? I learned this at the feet of my maester with my brother Robb when I was a boy.”

“The Iron Bank will collect payment on a monthly basis, no matter if the crown has the funds or not. That is what a 'loan' is. Payment – or lack of payment – is made and noted no matter the month. And for every sum not repaid, interest will be added to the outstanding monies owed.”

Jon felt as though he was explaining sums to a child. “In short, if they are not repaid – they will collect their debts one way or another.”

“And?” Bronn looked unimpressed. “I borrowed the money from them. I pay them back when I feel like it. That's what the paper says.”

Lady Tarly glanced to Jon. “I do not seek to interrupt, Lord Hand – but may we return to the matters of crime? Your mercenaries have attacked those enforcing the law upon members of theirs caught committing crimes. Rapes and thefts go unpunished as the Company sends its thugs to threaten and intimidate.”

Taking his seat, Bronn shrugged. “I've spoke to the boys. They say there's no proof.”

“Proof?” Talla shot back. “Multiple persons seeing them drag screaming women from their homes and...defile them in the open! You expect me to believe that they are all lying?”

“Given how your people don't seem to like me or my boys, yes.” Bronn said, casually flicking dirt from his nails. “People make up all sorts of nasty lies about people they don't like. Just because you don't want to part with your wealth -”

Shooting to his feet, Lord Leyton smashed a fist on the table. “You speak out of turn, ser! This is not about power or jealousy, but about the lack of respect you and your thugs show us, our people and our Houses!”

“You pillage, plunder, rape and harass across the Reach. You, a man who would have nothing if not for the Imp! We are scions of this land, many of whom were here long before there was a Seven Kingdoms – or in this case, a Six Kingdoms – and you expect us to bend and scrape to you?” The Lord of House Hightower was seething now, his face beet red.

* * *

 

As the men continued their rantings, Jon's mind puzzled over the situation before him. Bronn's abrasive attitude was shocking, even for one as lowborn as him. Any man who talked as he did to the lords of the Reach – one of the most wealthiest regions of Westeros – was either deranged or insane.

Yet for all of his threats and bluster, Bronn seemed calculated. _Best watch that one_ , he thought. Any man that owed his existence to Tyrion Lannister was one to not be underestimated.

Still, Bran and his Council would be arriving soon. The Lords-Assembled could then put this whole matter behind them – and he could return North with an army, prepared to defend the shores of the North against the iron-men and eunuchs.

“...I still find it funny that you're here, bastard.” Bronn gazed at him, a mix of annoyance and contempt in his eyes. “Far as I remember, you were sent up to the Wall where you belong. That's what the King said, anyway.”

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but was beaten to it by Lord Rowan. “You will watch your tone! That is Rhaegar Targaryen's last living son, and I will brook no disrespect from the likes of you in his presence.” The man's face was now as beet red as Lord Hightower's.

Rhaegar Targaryen.

_He haunts my every step._

For a man Jon never met he certainly did enough to affect his life. The Reach was loyal to the Targaryens up until the end, he knew from his histories. He also knew that Lord Varys had sent out ravens proclaiming his parentage before his execution.

“My...situation...is not the stake here, Lord Bronn.” Jon replied, shooting a glance to the Lords-Assembled in the process. “We need to resolve this crisis and, clearly there is no chance of doing it with just you. Thus, we will wait for the King.”

The poisonous glare Jon got told him that his words had gotten under the man's skin. _Good._

“When the King comes, you'll all regret crossing me, your rightful liege lord.” he snarled, rising to his feet and making for the door. “I'll have Hightower all to myself, you'll see!”

“I would say that went well.” Jon sarcastically quipped after the man and his guards had left the meeting. “As well as to be expected.”

Lord Hightower rubbed his forehead. “That man has always been unpleasant, but with his authority threatened he is now becoming unstable. The King will have no choice but to remove him from power – and if he does not...”

Jon raised a hand. “He will. We will convince him of such. Rest assured, my lords. That is why I am here.” He would brook no talk of deposing or revolting against Bran. As angry as he was at his brother and his Hand, he knew that the Six Kingdoms would turn their gazes North if they were to collapse into separate polities.

“The King arrives in a few days time.” Lady Tarly added, wringing her hands together. “We shall meet with him and the rest of the Small Council and sort this matter out. Before the week is over, the Blood Company will have no choice but to leave, I am sure of it.”

_I hope you are right, my lady._

Jon still nursed a feeling of doubt as to the end result of this meeting. Bran was not the same boy he had once known; he was an enigma, the boy he knew having been lost to...whatever called itself the “three eyed raven”. It was hard to say how he would feel about the issues raised by the Lords-Assembled.

“Lord Hand, will you sit at the meeting with us?” Lord Leyton asked, the gazes of the rest of the lords falling upon him. “Given your history with both the King and Lord Lannister, I mean.”

“Of course I will. My personal feelings are not at stake here, my lords. We are here to both secure the future of the Reach and the future of the North, of which I am here as the representative of my Queen.” he replied, doing his best to assuage them.

It would be foolish of him to avoid the talks,after all. It was his ideas that saw them come to fruition; the valid issues raised would need to be framed in such a way that it would be seen as a base injustice for Bran to do nothing.

The Lords rose from their seats, with Lord Rowan speaking first. “I propose we get some rest. We will need to begin discussions on how best to present our case to the King, and we will want clear heads for such an endeavor.”

* * *

Jon nodded, saying nothing as he slowly pulled himself up. Wallace was at his side, the Packguard offering an arm. “Are you alright, my lord?” the big man asked, concerned.

“Fine, Wallace. Just...tired.” Jon mumbled. The exhaustion was getting to him; what little sleep he had was broken up by fits of nightmarish images.

Of rivers of fire and rain that was blood, never ending. Last night he saw a squid rising from the deeps, its tentacles ripping huge chunks of flesh from his body with every passing moment.

He saw mountains bursting with floes of lava and heard the screams of a thousand dead souls.

The worst was the faces of the burned, blackened people. Gods, the faces. They were everywhere, staring hatefully at him. He saw Sansa. Arya. Bran, even.

All burned, flesh charred and cooked and peeling off their now ravaged bodies.

Jon had dreamed before.

Wolf dreams, regular dreams, even erotic dreams much to his embarrassment. Yet now these dreams were terrifying. Still, he knew they were simply that – dreams – and he did what he could to ignore them.

Soon, he would leave this place and return home.

Soon, he would slay the squids and drive the eunuchs back into the seas. He would be at Sansa's side, serving the Queen he loved and honored with every waking moment.

First he had to prepare. Bran and Tyrion would be the obstacles in his way – and he had to clear them from his goals as smoothly as possible.

* * *

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon talks with Tyrion and gets mad.

_The sounds from the crypt drew him closer, even as his mind screamed at him to go back. Go back, Jon, this is not your place. They will not welcome dragons here..._

_Suddenly, he was in the depths._

_Light illuminated his way as he fumbled through the darkness. He went past the statues of the most ancient Starks, with faces long worn away from time. Past their wolves, some of whom were crumbling into dust._

_He even passed his own statue, carved in a likeness of what he might look like. That statue was on fire, the heat wafting over him as he moved carefully away from it._

_The sounds called him to a statue nearest the entrance._

“Father?” _Jon called out, his voice echoing through the darkness._

_Standing before Ned Stark's statue, Jon felt himself growing cold._

“Do I belong here? Do I make you proud?” _he called out, darting around the rapid darkness threatening to consume him._

“You are a Stark. You might not have my name, but you have my blood.

My blood...

My blood...”

_The words exploded into his head, drowning out all conscious thought. Jon felt nails driving into his skull as they repeated over and over again. He had to escape! He had to..._

 

* * *

Jon woke with a start, grasping at the sheets upon his bed wildly as his fog cleared.

After a moment, he sat up on the edge of the bed and sighed, running his hands through his hair. Another dream. Not a wolf dream, though – this was something different. He had not had dreams of the crypts in a long time.

_Why now?_ A great sigh escaped his lips as he poured himself a glass of water, gulping down the lukewarm liquid within moments.

Bran and his Small Council had arrived that afternoon, and most of the day was taken up with royal protocol; the Lords affirming their loyalty to the throne, polite introductions and a state dinner to finish the evening.

There had been brief discussions earlier in the afternoon – though Bran was not present, preferring to spend his time in the godswood – and they had gone nowhere, with the meeting descending into another tension filled affair that saw accusations of treason and lechery hurled back and forth by Bronn and Lord Leyton.

Further discussions would resume following break-fast, and this time Bran would be present to see to the dispute in person.

It was a tiresome affair. Seeing Bran and Tyrion – especially Tyrion – had taken a great deal from him, and it was plainly a struggle for Jon to suppress his anger towards the two.

The Imp had taken everything from him and now served as the puppet-master to his own brother.

_I must be strong._ Jon exhaled sharply, doing what he could to remain calm. Sansa had taught him some breathing exercises before he departed for White Harbor, and it was plain that he needed to use them.

It would do no good for him to pummel Tyrion's face in before the King, Lords-Assembled and others.

Jon took another gulp of water. The sun was starting to edge its way up over the horizon, and Oldtown was bathed in light as the people of the city began their day.

He reached over to the table next to him and pulled on his Hand pin, fastening it to his vest with a weary sigh.

“I am here for my Queen.” he mumbled. She was the only reason he had descended to the viper's den in the first place. The North must be protected and she must have a long and just rule. With the threat of the iron-men on the horizon thanks to his return to Winterfell, the North had to be ready.

A knock at the door interrupted his musings.

“Come in.” he croaked, rising off the bed.

* * *

Wallace entered the room, bowing his head apologetically. “Sorry to wake you, my lord Hand, but Ser Brienne of Tarth wishes a word.” he stated, gesturing behind him. “I've her at the threshold if you will see her.”

Nodding, Jon took a seat at his desk. Brienne served as Commander of Bran's Kingsguard – having decided to leave Sansa's service and take up defense of Bran.

He had nothing against her; she had defended Sansa valiantly and helped her escape from Ramsay, and thus was grateful.

“My Lord,” she bowed, standing by the door. “I am sorry to wake you at this hour.”

Jon waved a hand dismissively. “I was already rising, Ser. How can I help you?”

“The Lord Hand wishes to speak with you in his chambers.” she said, face still made of stone and betraying no emotion. “He claims it to be urgent that he see you.”

The familiar heat in his stomach began to grow once again. Tyrion dares summon me?

Perhaps this was the same feeling that others of House Targaryen felt. The madness. The anger. His was not as prominent, Jon reasoned, due to his not being a full-blooded member of that cursed dynasty. He was not the coupling of brother-sister marriage, thank the gods.

Still he thought of the smug face of the Imp and scowled.

_If there was any justice he would be on the Wall with me, not standing in judgment of me as Bran's Hand._

Brienne saw the anger in his face and winced.

Jon bit down on his tongue to stop from snapping at her; she was merely the messenger. Instead, he turned his gaze to her and smiled. “Thank you for the message, Ser Brienne. Kindly tell the Lord Hand that he can bugger every horse in Lord Leyton's stables and that I have no desire to speak with him.”

“I understand your anger, my lord.” she replied, “yet I would ask that you consider speaking with him even briefly. His mood was...anxious, to say the least.”

Scowling, Jon rose to his feet. She was a persistent woman, he knew, and would not allow him a moment's respite until he agreed. _Better to hear what he has to say and dismiss it, I suppose._

“Very well. Lead the way.”

 

* * *

Tyrion Lannister's chambers were somewhat smaller then Jon's, yet just as stately. Jon knew nothing of who they belonged to when not hosting visitors, but it was of no concern at that moment.

“Some wine? Not the best vintage, I'm afraid, but still a good age.” the dwarf offered, pouring himself a cup.

His tone was casual, not at all the same anxious wreck that Ser Brienne had described to him. A trick to get me here, then. “No, thank you.” he spat, barely concealing the venom in his voice.

Pulling himself up onto the chair across from him, Tyrion folded his hands on the table and smiled. The gesture filled Jon with renewed anger; the man was mocking him; it was plain for all to see. “I must say that I did not expect to find you here. If I recall, I told you to ask me again in ten years if we did the right thing. Six months is a bit less then that.” he chuckled.

The conversation was etched into Jon's mind, of course; it was then that he was told of his fate – banished to the Wall while Tyrion enjoyed a promotion to Hand of the King. Forced into the black once more for doing the right thing.

“The Queen has sent me here to support her friends in the Reach. The situation concerns her.” he lied, doing what he could to keep his tone neutral. It would do him no good to reveal anything of the truth to Tyrion; he was no friend of Winterfell's.

The Imp nodded, showing no reaction to the statement aside from that. “Still, it is funny to find you here at the same time as such a crisis befalls the Six Kingdoms. One might think the two events...somehow connected.”

“It is not I who you should be looking at, then.” Jon replied, “Your man Bronn is the cause of these concerns. Even you, as clever as you are, cannot deny this.”

Sighing, Tyrion rolled his shoulders in a casual shrug. “I will not deny that there has been...misrule here. Bronn is still new to the arts of lordship, I am afraid. The King and I have discussed this with him and he will change his behaviour to better suit his role.”

“He never should have been granted such a position of power.” Jon retorted with a sigh. “And if you think that someone of his repute will obey your commands without hesitation...”

The casual indifference written upon Tyrion's face continued to anger him. “Bronn knows that he owes his position and power to both me and the King.” he sipped at his wine. “Yet, this standoff has gone too far. Damage to the whole of the Six Kingdoms must be repaired and the Reach must pay its share.”

* * *

“No one here denies that.” Jon said. He had spent much time speaking with the lords of the Reach, and – while some were a tad arrogant – many were loyal subjects of the realm, and more then willing to assist with reconstruction. _Why can't he see that?_

Tyrion nodded. “Still, we find ourselves at an impasse. The non-payment of taxes, the skirmishes with Lord Bronn's soldiers and the like.”

“Thugs. Mercenaries, Tyrion. Do not attempt to play me for a fool.” Jon snarled.

“Call them what you like.” He reached for the wine jug and refilled his cup. “We must resolve this matter and soon. As there are more...pressing concerns that the realm must deal with, of course.”

_Here it comes._ “Such as?”

“Word of your pardon has already reached the Iron Islands, as you well know. Lady Yara will be preparing a fleet with the help of the Unsullied, who have already landed at Great Wyk. Soon they will raid into the North, pillaging and plundering at will.” He paused, shaking his head. “And while Sansa is a capable ruler, even she cannot pull armies from nowhere.”

“Sadly, you know that the King cannot intervene on this. The North is not part of his realm – and thus we will have to simply...watch and wait.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Say what you wish to say and spare me the mummery.”

Tyrion laughed. “Oh, very well.” he chortled, his tone contemptuous. “Your pardon has ripped open wounds that the King and I spent a great deal of time attempting to mend. The Unsullied will now rampage across the North and the ironborn will raid and reave and rape. The realm is already unstable; Dorne, the Riverlands and the Iron Islands are agitating towards independence thanks to the King's agreement of the North's desire. And now a kingslayer is in the Queen's royal court.”

“She made a mistake, Jon. Even you must see that.”

That was enough. “I see it differently. I see before me a man who if there was any true justice in this world would have been sent to the Wall or the headsman's axe alongside me. Who would have suffered the same as I did for your own treason.” he spat, rising to his feet.

“Instead you end up rewarded with a position of power once again. Bran – or the being that is inside Bran's body – will not oppose you. So, you get to run the realm as your own fiefdom. While I am reviled for my actions, you are able to retain your wealth and influence.” Jon's face grew beet red.

The smirk had gone from Tyrion's face. He glared back at Jon with the same level of anger. “Your very presence here threatens to tear down all we have built. All we will build! My own position as Hand was not one I sought after -”

“No, but you did greatly benefit from it. How curious.” Jon gripped the edge of the table tightly. “Now I am here, fighting for my Queen – as I am her Hand – to save the North. I am not here to reward friends or hirelings with land and titles.”

Tyrion tilted his head. “You are the Hand of the Queen. Yet I also hear rumors that your hands are _on_ and _inside_ the Queen, too.”

It was a good thing Jon did not bring Longclaw with him else he would have cut Tyrion's head from his shoulders then and there. “For shame. A man raised alongside a woman he believed his sister now finds himself in her bed. You and Jaime have much in common.”

_He dare disrespect her?! In my hearing?_ The dragon inside roared with heat, begging to be let out upon this hapless dwarf. _She is my Queen. She is my life. My love._

“Do not test me.” Jon shook with rage.

“Why not?” Tyrion spat. “You being here is testing the fabric of peace we have built. You should have stayed with the wildlings. Where you belong – with savages and other bastards.”

* * *

Jon slammed his hand into the wine jug, sending it flying off the table and clattering to the ground, spilling its contents everywhere.

He leaned into the table, bringing his face to Tyrion's own as close as he could. “By what right does the lion – a spotted lion willing to change its spots – judge the wolf? By...what...right do you judge...the dragon?”

That made the Imp laugh. “And there it is! The Targaryen madness. Very good, Lord Snow. I wondered when I would see it in you.”

Jon stormed away, heading for the door. “Do not think this will end easily for you, Lannister.” he spat.

Tyrion raised his glass. “Nor you, Lord Hand. Nor you.”

* * *

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Jon sighed, slumping down into his seat. Pouring himself a glass of water, he drank it down quickly as he shook his head. _I should have been more diplomatic,_ he knew. Yet Tyrion's comments had angered him greatly; the casual disrespect he showed to Sansa and the North was more then he could bear.

_You should have stayed with the wildlings. Where you belong – with savages and other bastards._

The words rang in his head, no matter how he thought to dismiss them. Perhaps he was right? Had he made a mistake in accepting Sansa's pardon? He could have gone further north and lived among Tormund and the other free folk permanently.

There, men did not care who one's parents were. All that mattered was how one conducted themselves. It was clear that Jon did not know how to comport himself properly in the presence of Tyrion, given how angry he had reacted.

 _It's the dragon's blood_ , that little voice told him.

He slammed the glass down on the desk, resting a hand on his forehead. He cursed the day that Rhaegar Targaryen had fallen in love with Lyanna Stark; he cursed the day she grew fat with child. With _him._

Even though they would deny it, he saw the lords look at him differently. Even those in Winterfell had viewed him with a mixture of reverence and loathing. It was all based on the blood flowing through his veins, something he could not control any more then he could the wind.

Yet Jon knew that it made no difference to Sansa. She did not view him as a thing – a tool to be used or a threat to be neutralized – but as Jon Snow, the man she loved.

It was that thought that kept him going.

Reaching for the quill off to the right, he grasped some parchment and began to write.

* * *

> _Dearest Sansa,_
> 
> _I long for home. For you. The longer I remain in this wretched land the longer I desire the simplicity of Winterfell. Progress is slow but hopeful. I will return soon with the Reach's armada at my back._
> 
> _Yours always,_
> 
> _Jon_

* * *

His thoughts turned back to the free folk again. His time with Ygritte had showed him their ways. Their lifestyle – one free of any sort of duplicity and scheming.

A chuckle escaped his lips. “I wonder what you would think of me now.” he whispered balefully.

_Would you bed your sister? Apparently so._

Would the spear-wife even recognize him? She was all that Jon knew to be true about the free folk – proud, confident and strong.

If not for Sansa, Jon would likely have abandoned the Watch and gone to Hardhome, never to return. He felt more at home with the wildlings then he did in any castle. Even Winterfell felt alien to him; aside from Sansa, most there viewed him with the same awe and fear that he had come to expect.

It was no good to focus on the past.

Jon shook his head, nodding to himself. “I have made my choice. I chose Sansa. I chose the North.” he said aloud. There was no going back; nor would he. Sansa gave him a reason to live, to try, to commit himself even in a world he disliked.

Sleep was what he craved now, more than ever. Looking out of the window, the sun had begun to dip low into the horizon; night would soon be upon them. Jon's eyes grew heavy as he stumbled from the chair, pulling the curtains shut.

_The sooner this nonsense was resolved, the better._

Following his talk with Tyrion, the negotiations had resumed. Once again, no progress was made – Bran had not come as promised, prompting protests – yet all that Grand Maester Sam said was that he felt the “time was not right”.

Such was what remained of his brother, Jon thought bitterly. There was no more Brandon Stark – only the entity that controlled his body.

The boy who loved climbing, knights and southern songs was dead and he was not coming back.

Jon fell into bed, his eyes shutting just as his head hit the pillow. A good night of rest would do him good.

 

* * *

Jon had spent a good portion of his life fighting.

He knew the sounds of battle well – skirmishes, brawls, and full-scale clashes of armies great and small. The sound of steel on steel, the shouts of men as they attacked, defended and screams when they were wounded.

It was those sounds that woke up from his restful sleep.

He sat up with a start, doing his best to clear his head. It was a dream, he reasoned. Another tormented vision of his life; perhaps his battle against the Boltons that he could not remember this time.

He realized within moments that the sounds had not stopped. It sounded as though it was coming from outside of his room.

_We are under attack!_

Thinking quickly, he went to the table where Longclaw lay sheathed. He drew the blade from its scabbard and forced open the door to his chambers.

* * *

A half dozen swords surrounded him at once. Their wielders were not Hightower men or his own guards; he recognized the yellow and red armor of the Blood Company from his experience with them at the city gates.

“Lord Snow,” one of the men said, shoving his blade into its scabbard. “You're to come with us.”

Jon looked about the hallway; there were at least a dozen more mercenaries around him. He had no chance of escaping this fight should he choose to engage them.

Three of his guards were dead on the floor around him in pools of blood.

“Will you come quiet?” the commander asked once again. “Or do we need use force?”

 _A good commander knows when to admit defeat._ “I've no choice.” he sighed, dropping his sword.

One of the guards to his left clapped fetters upon his wrists. “Good. A wise choice.”

Turning to his men, the commander pointed at the blade. “Bring him to the Great Hall. Oh, and pick up the blade. Always wanted to get my hands on some Valyrian steel.”

As he was lead down the hallway, Jon wondered at his fate.

_Condemned for regicide only to die at the hands of mercenaries. A fitting fate, perhaps. I do know nothing, Ygritte. I see now you were right._

* * *

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys like this one!! still continuing on, but again I work midnights so my updates might be all over the place with time. <3

The Hightower's great hall was vast, at least twice the size of Winterfell, Jon mused. As one of the mercenaries prodded him with the butt of his spear into the room, he glanced about as an instinct; looking for anything to benefit his escape.

All of the furniture – the Lords' seat, the various chairs, sconces and artwork depicting Oldtown – had been removed, allowing only for room to stand. Within the room were at least two dozen Blood Company mercenaries, all in various states of combat readiness.

Guards were posted on every door, each man with a spear and sword.

“Oh, good. He's here.” a voice drawled from across the room. Jon watched as Bronn came into view, gesturing at the men guarding him. “On his knees, boys. You know how this works.”

Feeling the spear point in his back Jon knelt, glaring at the sell-sword. “This is your idea of forcing your rule, then? Killing me will not make the Lords-Assembled bow to you any faster, I do hope you know.” he spat.

“This isn't about that.” Tyrion sighed as he waddled into focus next to Bronn. “I told you when you were imprisoned that setting you free would cause a war. Why did not you not listen to me?” His voice was pained as he stared to Jon, visibly hurt.

A laugh escaped his lips despite himself. “Spare me your false sympathy. After all the tortures you have inflicted upon my family you cannot expect me to understand your actions here tonight.” Jon growled. _Damn the Imp!_

Damn him for trusting such a man.

* * *

“Just have his head off and be done with it.” Bronn interjected. “The longer we wait, the more problems it causes.”

Turning to the far door Tyrion gestured to a man garbed in golden Kingsguard armour. “Ser Kyle, are the Lord Commander and the King secure in their chambers?” he shouted.

“Aye, Lord Hand.” came the reply.

Jon scoffed, causing Tyrion to turn back to him. “So, this is Bran's plan? Kill me and somehow it secures the Reach for your sell-sword friend here?” he asked, “because if so, it is the most ill-conceived plan I have heard, ser – and I have heard many.”

“This has nothing to do with His Grace, Jon.” the dwarf replied, his tone still soft and regretful. “You may think ill of me, but I have the best interests of the realm in mind as I always have.”

Bronn tapped his foot, huffing with annoyance. “Just kill him already! Enough with the yammering.”

Jon felt the blade across his neck as he braced for the blow. His thoughts turned to Sansa and to home, and the pain and anguish he felt at having failed her once again.

_I am so sorry, my love. I wish I was better able to find success._

“What happens to Sansa?” he blurted out. “My death means the North will not have help against the iron-men. Is this part of your plan? You told me you wished her nothing but happiness, Tyrion. Another lie, I am sure.”

He saw the man's eyes flicker a moment. He held up his hand and the blade disappeared from his throat.

That only peaked Bronn's attitude. “The fuck are you waiting for? You don't owe him a thing!” he protested.

“I owe him more then you realize.” Tyrion retorted angrily. “For a man who risked his life and limb to save the realm from a tyrant, I at least owe him the explanation behind all of this. Behind the...necessity of what we are doing.”

Jon rolled his eyes. More self-righteous vitriol. “Say what you will and get on with it.”

Waddling closer to Jon, Tyrion gestured around him. “This is not about Oldtown. Not about the Reach, even. Not really – it is about the realm.” he began. “Your presence here continues to threaten the stability we have worked so hard for, Jon.”

* * *

“King Brandon is finally settled into his role, and most of the lords have rallied to him to rebuild what has been lost. Yet, there are still those who want to seat Rhaegar Targaryen's true-born son upon what is left of the Iron Throne.” he explained, talking slow and deliberately as though Jon was a child. “More to the point, the Unsullied and iron-men want you dead. This we knew, of course.”

“Sansa...her pardon of you was bad enough. Yet now she announces she will marry you? That...that creates an even greater problem in regards to the realm. Her own demand of independence – granted by the King as it was – has opened larger wounds then ever. Wounds we have spent the last six months attempting to heal.”

Tyrion paced back and forth, tapping his fingers together behind his back. “If you had remained beyond the Wall, no one would have had any say in what happened. Things could have gone on as they were – slowly but peacefully. Yet now, you have forced the hands of those who want to do not only you harm, but the realm.”

“We have no choice now – killing you will start a war, but it is the best path forward.”

_This is absurd nonsense._ “None of what you say makes sense. How does it help? Hmm?”

“With your death the iron-men and the Unsullied will be satisfied. Yet they will continue their plunder and raids of the North, raids they have already begun. Sansa cannot defend against them – we all know the North has no strength left after all they have suffered, not truly.” he continued. “She will have no choice but to ask His Grace for help – help he will gladly give his sister. We will throw them out of the North and the Queen will rejoin the Six Kingdoms, helping to put an end to the fractures caused by independence talk.”

“Killing me will not bring Sansa into this.” Jon spat, “Come now, Tyrion. I thought you were a smarter man.”

He smiled his sad smile once again. “Your death at the hands of the Lords of the Reach will. It will also stop any talks of seating you upon the Throne. Speak of not wanting it as you will, but there will always be those who want to restore House Targaryen to power. You represent that, willingly or not.”

Jon felt chills race up his body. It was a mixture of fear and rage. He did not fear death, not truly.

Yet the thought of the Ironborn and Unsullied ravaging the North while Sansa was forced to bow to Tyrion's schemes enraged him beyond belief. “You would allow the North to suffer and die for the sake of – what? Forced reunification?”

“To stop this talk!” Tyrion shouted, eyes bulging slightly. “Like it or not, but the King's decision regarding Winterfell has touched off talk in other regions. Dorne has been agitating once again. Even Lord Edmure in the Riverlands has broached the subject. Revoking the North's independence will squash that.”

He raised his head up, holding it high. _I will not let them see fear_ , he told himself. “You hold all the cards, then. I do not know how you managed to get so many of Bronn's “men” into the Hightower, but have my head off and be done with it, then.”

“Any man can be bought.” Bronn added, helpfully. “Now, do as he says, will you?”

Jon closed his eyes, bracing for the blow.

* * *

Yet it never came.

The door on the far end of the room crashed open and a large figure in gold stomped inside, sword held high. Behind him came a squadron of Hightower soldiers.

It was not a him. It was a her.

_Ser Brienne_ , Jon grinned. _What fortunate timing._

“Lord Tyrion,” she addressed, her blade pointed toward him. “His Grace demands the release of Lord Hand Snow at once. Do so and he shall forgive you of your treason.”

“What's she doing here?!” Bronn shouted, grasping for his sword. “I thought Ser what's his name locked the chambers?” Jon was pleased to hear the panic begin to take hold in his voice.

The other Kingsguard stepped up beside Brienne. “My duty is to the King, ser.” the man replied, his blue eyes glaring contemptuously at Bronn. “Not to a Hand who violates the King's orders.”

“Release Lord Snow. Now.” Ser Brienne shouted once more. “Do not let this come to blows.”

Tyrion remained unflinching as he shook his head. “We have no choice, Ser Brienne. Have my head if you will – but Lord Snow's death will only bring great benefits to the realm.” He turned his head to the mercenary holding the blade. “Do it!”

* * *

At the command, the man raised his blade – yet it fell to the ground almost instantaneously as he clutched his head, his eyes growing white and his body beginning to shake. _Bran's magic,_ Jon knew at once.

He saw his chance and lunged for the sword, grabbing it in his still bound hands and swinging it wildly towards his stunned captor. The blade bit deep into the leather breeches he wore, severing the leg below the knee.

Chaos erupted all around him as the Blood Company mercenaries – lead by Bronn – charged the Hightower guardsmen and the Kingsguard.

Jon got to his feet shakily, the sounds of battle ringing around him. He quickly put his back to the wall, watching as soldiers clashed and died around him.

It was hard to keep track of who was where, but he saw the large form of Brienne smashing her way through the mercenaries foolish enough to stand against her.

One of the mercenaries rushed Jon, swinging his blade in a slash. Jon raised the sword to block the cut – only to fall to one knee as the sword vibrated violently in his hands due to the chains. His arms screamed in agony as the man advanced, his fingers dropping the blade due to their bindings.

He did the only thing he could do and threw himself at his attacker, tackling the man to the ground and knocking the sword away. He used his chains and beat against the man's face, stunning him as he reached and clawed at Jon in a feeble attempt to free himself.

Jon smashed the metal into the man again and again until his struggles turned to twitches and gasps, the man's face looking like bloody beef.

* * *

By the time he pulled himself away from the dead man, the fighting was over. All of the mercenaries had been killed or injured and the Hightower guardsmen were corralling the survivors away to the dungeons.

Ser Brienne approached him, unlocking his fetters and helping him to his feet. “My Lord,” she bowed her head. “I apologize for my late arrival. When the King informed us about what was to happen we made our way here at once.”

“I'm glad that Bran was not so cruel as to do this.” Jon rubbed his wrists, sheathing Longclaw back into its place at his side. “I still feel as though he knew of this plot.”

The knight called Ser Kyle gestured to Tyrion and Bronn, both in a corner of the room and under guard. “What should we do with them, Lady Commander?” he asked Brienne.

Jon walked forward, ignoring her words as he went for the pair. Rage flowed through his body as he drew Longclaw once more. The madness, his mind cautioned. Yet the anger – it was almost as though his whole being had been replaced with it.

Rational thought was replaced by the desire to kill those who had wronged the North – and Sansa.

He rounded on Bronn first. The mercenary lord pointed a finger at him. “I am on the Small Council and the King's Master of Coin!” he barked, “Hurtin' me is not a good idea, do you understand?”

Longclaw took the hand Bronn pointed at him, blood spurting forth like a fountain.

As the man fell screaming onto his knees, he flung a variety of curses Jon's way.

“My Lord!” Brienne protested, her hand grasping Jon's sword arm. “The fates of the prisoners are to be decided by the King. I cannot permit you to kill these men until royal command is given.”

The anger began to fizzle as he stared at Brienne, his mouth twitching as he processed her words.

* * *

“FUCKING CUNT!” Bronn wept, cradling his bloody stump of a hand.

The sound of scraping wood came from the main doors to the east. From behind them came Podrick Payne, who Jon knew as Brienne's squire – now raised to the Kingsguard by the appearance of his armor. Beside him came Lord Leyton and a squad of Hightower guard.

Podrick pushed the wheel-chair containing Bran into the room, and Brienne and the guards went to their knees out of respect as he came to a stop. Jon did not; turning his gaze to his brother none the less.

“The sentences have already been determined, Ser Brienne.” he said in his unflinchingly neutral tone. “Both Lords Tyrion and Bronn are guilty of this treason.”

Tyrion moved forward, pointing towards the still crying Bronn. “Your Grace, you must know that I knew nothing of these treasons.” he barked nervously, “Lord Bronn and his mercenaries coerced me into aiding them -”

Bran shook his head. “You gave the iron-men news of Sansa's pardoning of Jon. You provided them with the raven of her announcing marriage. Your efforts have culminated in an attempt to murder Jon – out of a belief it will cause the North to return to my rule. It will not.” he stated. “The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword.”

He turned his gaze to Jon. “I would ask this of you, cousin.”

A feral smile claimed Jon's reddened face. He turned back towards Bronn.

The man looked up at him with tear soaked eyes and began to blubber for mercy before Jon ended it with a thrust through his throat. His pleas turned to gasps and gagging as he convulsed on the ground, moaning in agony as the life exited his body.

His eyes fell to Tyrion next. The man had gone white as a sheet and his hands were trembling.

“I make no apology of what I did.” he stammered, “The realm -”

It satisfied him to no end as the dwarf's head bounced to the floor.

All at once, the anger and rage started to boil away. Sansa was avenged. The North was avenged.

* * *

Jon turned to Lord Leyton. “I ask that you assemble your ships and men now, my lord.” he gestured to the corpses. “We have solved the Reach crisis, as plain to see.”

“Of course, Lord Hand.” he bowed, turning to Bran. “My liege, I would offer myself to you as Lord Paramount of the Reach. The other Lords-Assembled have already agreed to my selection and I stand ready to enact the will of King Brandon in this land.”

Bran nodded. “Highgarden will remain unoccupied as we search for Tyrell offshoots. However, The Reach is yours, my lord.” he announced with a slight smile. “I give you leave to aid my sister in repulsing the iron-men.”

“Jon.” the King called out as Jon turned away, looking to head for his chambers. “I would speak with you. In private.”

* * *

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a heads up, sansa's armor is basically what Lyanna Mormont wears in 8x03 only with a direwolf on the breastplate! 
> 
> visual: https://tinyurl.com/yy32tzx4

The fortified towers of the New Castle allowed Sansa a wide view of White Harbor, enabling her to look out upon the city and watch it prepare for the coming of the iron-born.

The  trebuchets that Lord Manderly had begun constructing some weeks ago had been completed, and the great engines of war were now lined up just before the great harbor itself. Barricades were springing up all over the city, mostly concentrated in the major routes in and out of the docks.

In the great bay itself, the twenty war galleys available to the North floated in a defensive pattern, the direwolf flying high over each of the large sails.

 _Still, it is not enough_.

Sansa turned from the window and returned to the table in the centre of the room, where a large map of the city had been laid out. Markers – wolves for Stark forces and squid for iron-men – were positioned based on the defences of the city.

“What is the status of our fighting forces, my lord?” she asked, gesturing towards the ledgers laid out before her. “Exact numbers, if possible.”

Wyman Manderly – the Lord of White Harbour – folded his arms and frowned. “At last count, Your Grace, we have about three thousand fighting men. And that is a generous estimate, if truth be told.”

The news was not surprising; still, it was grim. “Even with the reinforcements from Deepwood?”

He nodded. “We have armed every graybeard and boy we can.” he sighed, “yet most of our strength lies rotting in the South somewhere.”

 _Jon is our hope, then_.

Sansa missed him dearly – especially now, with the iron-born on their way in force. The scouts counted some sixty long-ships flying the kraken and Targaryen dragon sailing from Pyke as of one week ago. Their numbers were formidable enough, even without the Unsullied being included.

“The Lord Hand's raven indicated he was on his way from Oldtown with forty ships at all speed,” she recalled, folding her own arms together as she studied the map. “Yet the iron-men will arrive before he and the fleet have a chance to.”

At her feet, Ghost nuzzled into her leg, prompting Sansa to rub his head. She felt safe with him around – even with three of her Packguard watching the room, they were not liable to tear a man's arm out with their teeth.

Ghost also smelled like Jon. Felt like Jon.

* * *

Lord Manderly's frown deepened. “I mean no disrespect, Your Grace – but will the forces of the Reach be enough? Many of their ships are not built for northern climates.” His tone was hard; she knew that the Manderlys had once been a house from the Reach before their exile several centuries ago. “Not to mention...”

“I know your feelings toward the Reach, my lord. Yet they are the only sea faring power that has the potential to turn the tide in our favor.” she assured him, “They are also adept at facing the iron-men, having done so many times throughout history.” Sansa offered him a grin.

The old man responded in kind. “Aye, that they have. In earnest, my lady – it will be nice to rub our prosperity in the faces of those jackanapes when this is through.” he said proudly. “Begging your pardons, Your Grace.” he added quickly.

Sansa laughed. “No pardons needed.” It was good to keep ones spirits up, especially at a time like this. “We should turn to the problem of ground assault. Once the ships dislodge their warriors, it will be hard fighting from the docks to the New Castle itself.” she pointed to some of the markers.

“My son is overseeing the defenses in the main heart of the city.” Manderly noted, “Wylis tells me that the barricades will be as strong and fortified as able. We will make the squids and their eunuch friends pay for every inch of ground, Your Grace. I assure you.”

She fingered the metal wolf on the front of her breastplate.

The armor was custom-crafted for her as fit for a Queen, the blacksmiths in the city had told her. It reminded her almost of the late Lyanna Mormont's own battle-garb, complete with plated dress.

 _A Queen does not abandon her people_. “All we must do is hold them long enough for the reinforcements to arrive. If all seems lost, we fall back to the New Castle and shut the gates. Even the Unsullied will have a hard time breaching the iron.” she gestured to the castle's location on the map.

Jon's raven had come two nights past while she was inspecting the defenses in the city. It heartened her to know he had succeeded in his efforts, and the support of the Reach would make all the difference.

* * *

It also worried her – greatly – to hear of Tyrion's treachery in regards to her. Even though her former husband was now dead thanks to Jon, the thought of Bran's own court attempting to undermine the North was a constant thought.

_Still. We must deal with one threat at a time._

Jon would come back soon. Not just to defeat the iron-men, of course.

When he returned, she vowed to wed him as fast as possible. Once the threat was defeated, he would sit where he should have sat from the beginning – as King. She would brook no hatred, scorn or attempts to depose or otherwise undermine him from anyone.

“Your Grace...” Lord Manderly looked to her. “Given the danger we will find ourselves in, I once again must urge you to return to Winterfell. We will hold here as per your wishes, but I do not want to see you put in any needless danger.”

It was a common enough belief. Her Packguard had pleaded with her to do so, pledging their lives – as they already had – to see her safely returned to her seat. “I will not abandon my people.” she repeated. “I will remain here, victory or defeat, my lord.”

She would remain – both to rally her people against the enemy – and to throw herself into Jon's arms when they had cast off the iron-born.

_Oh, it will be sweet to see him again._

* * *

 

 


	14. Interlude

Hey guys, sorry about no updates in almost a week or two. Been busy with work and stuff. (I work the midnight shift so I tend to do my fic writing on my days off). 

Updates will be coming within the next 5-6 days though, I promise! 

love,

SharpenTheSoul


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably my weakest chapter so far, but i hope you guys enjoy <33

Jon's gaze went back and forth between Bran and the window, where he watched the ships in Oldtown's harbour being loaded for the journey.

Even in the early hours of the morning the light of the city was visible thanks to the many torches illuminating the structures. _It looks so peaceful_ , he thought wistfully.

Ripping his thoughts from the beauty of the streets below, he turned back towards Bran, who continued to gaze at him with his usual neutral expression. “Forgive me, Your Grace -” Jon bit down on the anger as he tried to sound neutral, “but I must be down at the docks. The ships of the Reach are making preparations to depart and I should be among them.”

“I understand, Jon.” Bran replied, “and the ships will be ready by the time the sun rises. The lords of the Reach are unflinching at their duty. Still, I wished to discuss my Hand's treason.”

A chuckle escaped his lips before Jon could stop it. “Trusting Tyrion Lannister as your Hand was the mistake, dear cousin.” he explained carefully, “the man has lied, manipulated and schemed his way from the Narrow Sea and back.”

 _I once thought him a friend._ Jon left that unsaid.

Bran folded his hands into his lap. “On the contrary, it was always my plan to leave him in this position. It would foster his own ambitions, his desires – and with his friend Bronn as Master of Coin it would allow them the chance to see their scheme come to the fore-front, allowing them to make a fatal mistake.”

“And what would that be?” Jon asked.

A rare hint of a smile crossed his lips for a fraction of a second before vanishing. “You. As ever, they underestimated your resolve. Your resilience and your persistence. I allowed their plot to progress this far to see them fully...dealt with.”

Jon folded his arms across his chest.

The anger began to build within, surging a heat into his cheeks that felt as hot as a dragon's flame. “I was bait.” he all but growled. “As ever, Your Grace – your _foresight_ and _wisdom_ is humbling.” The words came as sarcasm, but the contempt was audible with every word.

“Is that all I am to you?” he asked, eyes gazing from Bran to Davos and back. “A convenient piece to be played in your game of thrones? Sending me to the Wall – when there is no need for one any longer. Allowing Tyrion and Bronn to conspire to murder me? Where does it end?”

“When it must.” Bran replied. “Were there another way I would be glad to pursue it. However, the realm has suffered grievous wounds that require unorthodox treatments. Surely you can see it as such too, cousin.”

_I do not see people as tools._

He was here with a purpose – to secure and protect his home. His people – the same castle where Bran was born. He did not see the Reachmen as pawns to be sacrificed wantonly – but as honoured allies. Yes, many would die in the coming battles – but their deaths would be mourned and given the proper rites as fitting their Seven Gods.

“I am not here to manipulate or conspire.” He said simply. “Winterfell and the North – where you were born, if you remember – needs to prepare for the coming of the iron-men. So, I ask again if the rest of the Six Kingdoms will not provide aid in the coming battles.”

“You know we cannot.” Bran replied. “The North is not part of my realm. Thus any interference from us or our fleet would see the iron-men turn their wroth upon King's Landing and any other settlement they deem a fit target.”

Davos – remaining silent for the exchange – took this moment to speak. “As to that, my lord – we've only been able to build about three and ten ships for the royal fleet as it stands. We need those ships to patrol the Blackwater.”

Jon shook his head. “Very well.” he turned and made for the door. “Then there is nothing else to say. But consider this -” he pointed to Davos, “- perhaps it would have been better for me to allow Daenerys to burn her way across Westeros. To Dorne and Winterfell. Perhaps the whole wretched land should have burned – but we will never know.”

* * *

It took only a few moments for him to prepare a horse and begin a slow gallop to the docks. Jon always traveled light; aside from Longclaw and the clothes he wore upon his back, he carried nothing but a sack of salted beef.

The sun was creeping its way up into the sky now, and the streets were beginning to fill with the early risers; merchants preparing the days' wares, whores who liked to service the morning workers and so on.

He had sent his guards on ahead; the four that remained to him were helping to prepare the ship for departure. Even still, Lord Leyton had assigned him a squad to escort him to the docks.

Bran had not changed. Neither had Davos or Sam or any of the lick-spittles who now sat upon the Small Council. They had been quick to back Bran's ascension as King – even someone he once viewed as his friend like Davos – and quicker still to cast him to the Wall.

Sansa was all he had. All he cared about.

“Jon!” A voice called from his right.

At once his escort raised their weapons – only for Jon to wave them off as he saw the plump form of Sam riding into view. “I was hoping to catch you before you left,” he exclaimed, riding up as close as allowed.

“What do you want, Sam? Should you not be advising the King?” Jon asked.

Sam's position as Citadel Adviser to the King was one of ceremony; until he'd earned enough links of a maester's chain to be called a maester, he would act as their eyes and ears to Bran.

Sam reached out a hand and grasped Jon's shoulder. “I wanted to see you off. After what happened with Bronn and Tyrion -”

“After what happened, I would much prefer to leave as swiftly as possible.” Jon retorted. “Farewell, Sam. Give my best to Gilly.”

With that Jon rode off, galloping towards the docks with his escort in tow.

He wanted nothing more to do with any of them. The North – and battle – awaited.

* * *

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Yara parley.

Watching the small rowboat pull its way to the harbor Sansa kept her head high.

It was only natural for two leaders to seek parley before a battle, and as she watched the fluttering sails of the krakens off the coast she already knew what their terms would be.

Give up Jon.

Allow him to be killed by the Unsullied. Something she would not allow to take place – no matter the cost. _I have already lost so many of my family, and I will not lose him._ More then that, she knew the ironborn would not be so content to bend to the wishes of eastern eunuchs.

They would continue their raids, no matter if she agreed to their terms or not. They would slaughter, rape and pillage all out of a desire to attack a seemingly-weaker foe. Yet the North was not weak; they had weathered horrific events before, and the return of the krakens to their shores was no exception.

As the Greyjoy delegates stepped out of the rowboat and onto the dock Sansa observed them carefully, scrutinizing their facial features and movements.

* * *

 

Yara Greyjoy carried herself with the confidence and command that she had once known in Theon, long ago before the events of Ramsay Bolton.

Her face wore a neutral expression, her eyes darting this way and that. _She is cautious, and it shows. Yet she commands respect and admiration, and is confident of her men._

Grey Worm's face was locked in a scowl as he marched behind her. He was a killer, trained and raised – uncompromising and deadly, with a fanatical loyalty to the dead queen. He knew nothing of politics; nor would he likely care.

To Yara's side strode a man in armor, tall and slender. He wore a hard expression; _another soldier,_ Sansa mused. He moved with the confidence of a killer, the blade at his side shining ever so slightly in the sun.

Sansa's Packguard kept the trio at a distance, their hands ready on the hilts of their blades. They eyed the party with suspicion, the grizzled faces of the men staring hatefully at the iron-born.

“Lady Sansa.” Yara acknowledged with a nod as they came to a stop.

Before she could respond, a gruff voice from behind her barked out. “Queen Sansa, squid. Show some respect!” That was from Erik Flint, the Commander of the Packguard and a veteran of many wars. His scarred and ruined face gave Sansa a sense of comfort, despite his age; he was the perfect choice to command.

Holding up a hand Sansa shook her head. “Tis quite alright, Erik. I am sure the Lady Greyjoy meant no disrespect.” she smiled.

It embittered Yara to see her as a Queen of a free and independent kingdom while she was forced to do homage to Bran – apparently Daenerys Targaryen had promised the Greyjoys their independence when they first allied to her.

* * *

Yara rolled her eyes at the man's comment before continuing. “Queen, then.” she smiled, looking around at the walls of White Harbor behind her. “Of a very impressive – but empty – kingdom. You know why we are here, my lady. You see the ships at my command.”

“I do,” Sansa nodded. “and I also know that you are aware of the stout walls of White Harbour. They will not break easily, even to the strength of the seas you and your people possess.” _I will not see the North fall to you, not again._

Grey Worm took a step forward. “We do not want your cities.” he barked, clenching his jaw tightly. “Give us Jon Snow and we will leave.”

“Aye, he has a point.” Yara gestured around her. “You see the strength I have. We have six and ten ships and the warriors to both crew them and fight on land. I count...two and ten ships that fly the wolf colors, if that.”

“Numbers mean nothing when you are on the offensive, Lady Greyjoy.” Sansa noted with a nod. “Our walls are strong and our catapults are fresh-built and loaded. If need be, we can reduce your fleet to cinders before they land.”

The armored man to Yara's right was the next to speak, his brow furrowed as he crossed his arms. “We are making you a reasonable offer, my lady. If need be, we will pillage and plunder White Harbor – and the rest of the North – as before. You do all of this to protect one man. Why?”

“You expect me to surrender not only my Hand, but my betrothed?” Sansa snapped back angrily. “I know not who you are, Ser, but Jon Snow has done more for Winterfell and House Stark then any in living memory.”

She knew that the odds were stacked against them, but also that Jon was on his way with the reinforcements from the Reach. All the Stark forces need do is hold out long enough for them to arrive, so that the attack can be routed.

Privately, some of her advisers had questioned if a war with the ironborn was worth it for the sake of one man. She had dismissed those who had brought such an idea to her – it was an insult, not only to her but to Jon and the family they shared.

It was Jon who had lead the fight against the dead. Jon who had rallied the North behind them and helped to dethrone Ramsay. Jon who had given her the pleasure of seeing her former husband's life be torn violently from him by his own hounds.

_Jon who loves me for me, and not as a piece of meat or a tool._

* * *

Yara smiled.

“I admire your resolve, my lady. Yet resolve can only go so far.” she paused, stepping forward towards her.

The Packguard moved in front of Sansa defensively. “I wanted to say only that Theon spoke highly of you when we last saw each other.” she nodded, as though talking to someone. “I can see that he was right.”

It hurt Sansa to think about Theon, who had given his life for Winterfell. “He was a good man.” she said finally, “I do not want his memory to be besmirched with these actions, Lady Greyjoy. Please. You need not destroy what he died to protect.”

Yara looked almost regretful as she shook her head. “We have no choice, Lady Sansa. The Queen must be avenged.”

Grey Worm continued to glare at Sansa. “Your defenses will not hold up against us. We will not ask again!” he barked hatefully to her.

“It is a shame that your Queen was a tyrant. Where would she have stopped, I wonder? Would she not rest until every castle in Westeros was ash?” Sansa asked the eunuch. “Jon Snow did the world a favor.”

His face turned red as he looked to Yara and Sansa, then back. “No more demands! We will destroy you and your North if you do not give us Jon Snow. There will be no mercy given this time! No wall or watching of night.” he shouted, storming off towards the boat.

_Let him be angry._ “It seems your commander has not the ability for parley.” she replied dryly.

“His point stands. Raise the white flag over the New Castle and we will know you have accepted. We do not even ask you hand him over to us – we know he is on his way with a fleet from the south. Simply do not allow him safe harbour – we will handle the rest. Once he is dead, we sail home.” Yara made the demands.

“If no reply is given by sun-up, we attack.”

Sansa looked out towards the ironborn ships drifting off shore. “My Hand will not be harmed. Bring your worst to bear, my lady. The North Remembers – and will not allow history to repeat itself anew.”

* * *

As the rowboat pushed off towards the Greyjoy fleet, Sansa turned to Wylis Manderly, who had joined her at the docks. “Prepare the catapults, my lord.” she ordered, “and make ready the men. They come for us at sunrise.”

“The squids will not find us an easy foe, Your Grace.” the large man smiled, patting his stomach.

Sansa reached down to where Ghost stood, the wolf having returned to her side after the Greyjoys had left. “Jon is almost home.” she whispered, scratching behind his ear. “We need only hold out for a little while longer, Ghost.”

The wolf looked at her with his red eyes and licked her hand. “Let us show these ironborn that Starks have teeth.”

* * *

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get a glimpse of Yara Greyjoy's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delays in regards to this chapter. My mother was in having surgery so I was distracted. (She is fine though.)

Tapping on the map laid out before her Yara Greyjoy looked to the men around her. “Then the plan is clear?” she asked, eyeing each one for a brief moment as she watched them nod their assent. “Good. We have the numbers but not for long once Snow and the Reach get here. That gives us enough time to execute the plan and get out.”

A cough came from the end of the table. Yara smiled and looked to its source, knowing who it was already. “Uncle?” she asked, a hint of amusement crossing her face.

Rodrik Harlaw, Lord of Ten Towers – whose house made up the majority of her fleet – put down the book he was reading and studied her with his weathered face. “Is it wise to discuss this plan now, Yara? Given...our honoured allies.”

“I've seen them off the ship already, my lord.” Ser Harras Harlaw – Rodrik's heir and one of the few iron-men to be given a knighthood – assured him with a pat on his arm. “The eunuchs are aboard the _Swifthammer,_ ready to lead the charge into the harbour.”

Yara nodded.

This alliance with the Unsullied was risky – she knew it from the moment it was proposed – but a necessary one to ensure both peace and security for the Iron Islands. “I mislike this plan, truly. But we all know the Unsullied will not relent until the realm bleeds for their dead Queen.”

“We – above all – cannot afford such a war, especially after Euron's folly cost us so much.” she concluded, getting nods from the room. “This plan will work. It will allow the eunuchs to fight – and die – for their cause, while we are better able to gain what we so desire. Peace and freedom.”

Closing his book, Rodrik rose to his feet and bowed his head. “If this goes wrong, Yara -”

“It won't, uncle.” she smiled, crossing the room to squeeze his shoulder. “One last fight and we can put all of this behind us.”

Harras and Rodrik left the room quietly, off to prepare for their parts of the plan. That left Yara alone to contemplate what was to come.

* * *

When her uncle had first proposed the idea after Euron's death she had scoffed it away. If the Iron Islands was to declare independence now it would be a disaster – the Six Kingdoms, even in the hands of a leader like Brandon Stark could be a formidable adversary – and the ironborn would lose even more of what it could not afford; dignity, fighting men, and ships.

 _Damn Euron,_ she cursed. His ill made alliance with House Lannister had resulted in the destruction of most of the Iron Fleet and the deaths of the majority of its sailors. Yet in a strange way, it had opened her eyes to a truth she could not ignore.

The Old Way was dying.

Her grandfather knew this well; old Lord Quellon had been trying to reform the Iron Islands when he died. Yet her father had been a staunch traditionalist and reversed all of his work – and for most of her life Yara was content with what he had built.

“It cannot be kept up any longer.” she said to herself. The future of the Iron Islands was at stake here, and a victory such as she planned would allow Yara the support to further her reforms. No more raving, raiding and raping.

A New Way would need to emerge from the ashes or it was all for naught.

Grey Worm and the eunuchs would serve their purpose at the front of the offensive.

There were only some three hundred Unsullied left alive – barely a fraction of the eight thousand that Queen Daenerys once commanded. Yet they were formidable adversaries and would buy her ironmen the time they needed for the true objective.

Once the northern queen was their hostage, the Six Kingdoms would have no choice but to agree to her demands for independence once she was safely behind the walls of Castle Pyke.

* * *

Yara did feel some regret for her lies to the eunuchs. They were devoted to their queen, to the point of eagerly aiding her in what they believed was her quest to avenge her – but in truth Yara cared little for the cause of a dead queen.

 _Means to an end, my daughter._ Her father's words echoed in her head. _All men have a purpose – and can be used as such._

The Unsullied would not stop until they had avenged her; no matter what Yara's goals were, the eunuchs would slaughter anyone who stood against them – herself and her iron-men included. The regrets she felt at lying to and using them were quenched somewhat by the fact it would lead to a better future for all of Westeros.

The Iron Islands would join the Six Kingdoms in peace; the sailors and ships of the new Iron Fleet would be put to better use then raping and pillaging. The only things bought with their glories was death and destruction.

“One last raid.” she whispered. Once Sansa was ransomed back to her brother then she would sit the Seastone Chair and the driftwood crown placed upon her head, their independence gained with little bloodshed.

Yara thought of Theon and smiled sadly. “Would that you could be with me now, dear brother.” Yet she knew Theon would not follow her; he had died to defend Winterfell and the Starks, but she loved him all the same for it.

Removing her overcoat she collapsed onto the bunk. Sleep was a welcome distraction from what was to come in the morning – the future of the Iron Islands itself hung on her actions, and she would face that future well-rested.

* * *

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

Watching from the battlements of the New Castle gave Sansa a view into the waters of White Harbour – out beyond both the inner and outer docking berths themselves – and to the battle that was raging around them.

The distant sounds of men dying seemed to waft over the city proper, her ears able to pick them up even over the din of the other noises coming that way – mainly that of shouts and screams. Every now and again she saw the explosions from the pitch barrels lobbed by the catapults stationed at the outer harbour, but those were few and far between.

Her stomach ached with anxiety with every moment she kept watch, but it was her duty as Queen to see this battle through. _I will not run,_ she told herself over again. What sort of message would it send to see their ruler fleeing for the walls of Winterfell with their tail between their legs?

With her Packguard by her side, she was safe. Even if the ironborn and their Unsullied breached the gates they would still need to fight their way to her, and a hundred seasoned men of House Manderly stood watch over the walls alongside her guard.

“Your Grace,” one of her guard announced, breaking her from her reverie. “Lord Manderly to see you in the solar.”

* * *

With a nod she made her way into the room that had been set up as a command room; she'd taken to using it as a solar as the Manderlys and others prepared the defence of the city. Numerous map markers denoting strength were scattered about the map of White Harbour laid out on the large dining table.

Lord Wylis Manderly – who was overseeing the defence alongside his father – was caked with sweat and dirt, his hair filthy. He bowed with respect as she entered the room. “Your Grace, I bring news from the harbour.” he exclaimed.

Sansa looked to the map. “How fares the defence?”

“Our ships are being captured or damaged faster than we can repel them,” Manderly said, wiping his brow with a gloved hand. “Given they have the numbers, it is only a matter of time before they breach the outer harbour. From there, with no ships protecting it they will be able to land their men inside the city proper.”

It was to be expected that the sea battle would not go their way; the ironborn were natural sailors and outnumbered them by a three-to-one margin.

Sansa wished they had more time, however. “Begin preparing the barricades at the key berths.” she instructed, pointing to their locations on the map. “Once they begin their landing we need to make them fight for every inch of ground.”

“Aye, Your Grace.” Wylis nodded. “My captains and I are preparing the defenders as best we can, but – many of them are either young boys, invalids or greybeards. We've very few proper fighters. I...may I speak honestly, my Queen?”

* * *

Sansa nodded.

“Once the enemy begins landing – and no matter our efforts, they will – the eunuchs and the squids will cut most of our defenders down before they can even raise their shields.” The big man's face contorted into one of sadness.

 _Jon will be here._ She repeated that mantra every moment she could.

“Keep the most experienced men at the front to help rally them.” she moved one of the pieces towards the harbour on the map. “The Glover men from Deepwood should be with them. Most of those men are professional soldiers and will help significantly.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Manderly tapped his fingers on the map as if in thought. “Another thing we could try is to put archers on the jetty wall between the harbours. Even as untrained as most of them are, some of them will be able to hit the boats as they row in for a landing. It might buy us some time, at the least.”

In all, the defenders Sansa had in the city numbered less then three thousand. Most of those were young boys, greybeards or those already injured or sick – having been pressed into service due to the situation at hand.

While any Northern death made her mourn, she knew that many more would die before the day was out.

 _We have to hold._ “Do it. Get the barricades up around the trebuchets, also. We need them firing the pitch barrels as long as possible.” she commanded, “The more ironborn ships we can light, the less they can land.”

* * *

As he rushed from the room Sansa sighed, grasping at her direwolf necklace. Her thoughts turned away from the battle and to Jon; he would return with reinforcements; all that had to be done was for the men of the North to fight long enough for them to arrive.

Yet she longed for him and him alone.

To hold him, touch him – be near him. His absence made her feel as though a piece of her heart was missing, after having just reclaimed the piece with his triumphant return to Winterfell.

Still, she was Queen – and the people of her kingdom needed her in her role as much as she needed Jon as her Hand.

“Be afraid, Lady Greyjoy.” she whispered to herself, walking back to the battlements. “a dragon of ice and snow comes for you.”

* * *

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a heads up, the colours mentioned in the chapter refer to the signal flags used on ships; I figure even Westeros would have something like this so as to provide for communication between naval vessels 
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_maritime_signal_flags basic concepts 
> 
> hope you guys enjoy!

Jon turned towards the captain. “Can we not coax more speed out of her?”

The greybeard shook his head. “Afraid not, Lord Hand.” he shouted over the cacophony of noise all around them. “Sails are already fraying as it is.”

Biting down on his lip Jon turned towards the rails, observing the battle around them.

The Reach fleet had arrived not three hours ago, and already the ships were moving to engage the ironborn raiders and block any attempt at their escape. The Northern fleet had inflicted some damage but with Yara's fleet having the numbers, the new ships that Lord Manderly had built were now either in pieces and sinking to the sea floor or captured and flying the flag of this raid, a black scythe.

Unconsciously Jon slammed a hand down on the wood.

* * *

He watched the inner walls of White Harbour, where ships would put in for berth. A steady stream of rowboats made their way onto land, the raiders aboard debarking and making for the city proper.

Smoke rose from some of the structures nearest the docks as the battle was joined; he knew the city's defenders and whatever soldiers Sansa had been able to muster would give it a valiant defence – but he also knew that the Greyjoy men were mostly seasoned killers and reavers, whereas the defenders were old men, young boys and invalids with very few professional soldiers left among them.

“We have to break through!” he shouted to the captain, “What good will blockading their ships do if they are able to overrun the city?” It was all he could do to remain aboard; were it up to him he would jump into the waters and swim to shore.

He knew she was there, remaining in the New Castle – which loomed on the horizon the closer the ships got – and well protected, but that did not make him feel any better. Even with Ghost at her side Jon's heart pounded in his chest, the sounds threatening at times to drown out the din of battle.

One of the Greyjoy war galleys sailed dangerously close to the ship. “PREPARE TO BOARD!” the captain shouted as the crew armed themselves, those down below decks rushing up with grappling hooks as the ironborn vessel did the same, the oars of both ships scraping against one another.

Drawing Longclaw Jon began to make his way to the sailors, many of whom were now tossing their grapples. He saw a few hooks from the enemy had already impacted into the deck and he was quick to cut the ropes.

It was better that he stayed on this ship, he reasoned. Even though the lust for battle – a kind of burning sensation of hot rage – threatened to grow from within Jon tempered it with the knowledge that this ship would get him to Sansa faster.

The first of the ironborn raiders landed on deck.

He was a typical Greyjoy raider; a hideous black beard covered his face with several long scars running across his cheeks. In one hand he held an axe, a small buckler in the other.

Jon struck first, swinging Longclaw towards the man in a quick strike, which he knocked away with the buckler. The man laughed as he rushed forward, bringing two quick blows towards Jon's head – blows he easily managed to parry. His foe's attacks were sloppy and rushed; the smell of spirits was overpowering over his foul odour.

 _Going into battle drunk is not a good idea_ , he mused.

* * *

The two combatants circled one another as the battle was joined around them, the blood and bodies of sailors – both Reach and ironborn alike – coating the deck.

His opponent made a mistake and swung lazily with his axe, trying to step into the strike aimed at Jon's throat. His strike was slow and sloppy; the drink was having an effect – yet it gave Jon the opening he needed.

Quickly he lunged forward and tackled the man to the deck, the raider dropping his axe as he cried out in surprise. The miasma coming off his body was now enough to make Jon gag as the men grappled for control.

Jon's eyes saw the man reach for the dirk strapped to his waist and he kicked the man's midsection hard – he wore no armour saved for a boiled leather tunic – sending the raider sliding backward a step or two.   
Drawing the dirk he slid forward, plunging it into the stunned man's abdomen before he could react. Blood flowed from the raider as he moaned in agony, hands clutching feebly at the dirk as Jon drew it out before sticking him again.

Rising uneasily to his feet Jon found Longclaw – knocked over near the body of a dead Reach sailor – and reclaimed his blade. Around him the battle was beginning to die down; the sailors had managed to capture the ironborn vessel, the majority of the crew dead or having yielded.

 _A small victory,_ he knew as the men cheered around him.

“Bring the ship back to the rear line!” the captain barked as the remaining sailors rushed to their posts. “PREPARE FOR FAST CRUISE!” he shouted as the oarsmen pushed against the captured ship, breaking them apart with the groan of wood and steel.

A projectile launched from one of the trebuchets exploded in front of the ship, sending water spraying every which way. Jon shook himself awake, the cold ice of the sea shocking his senses back into focus.

He could see the shoreline growing closer; he could also see units of Unsullied now debarking the rowboats landing ashore. _Damn them,_ he growled. The eunuchs would make breaking the attack that much harder, especially if they focused on one part of the harbour's defences.

_Hold on, my love. I am coming._

Stalking his way back to the captain he gestured to the shore. “Are we close enough to launch the boats?!” he exclaimed, gesturing wildly with his sword. “We have to take the eunuchs by surprise if we have any hope of breaking their lines.”

* * *

“If we launch the boats now most of them won't make it to shore, my lord.” was the response. “The squids will pick them out of the water with arrows and fire.”

Lord Redwyne – the commander of the fleet – wanted to bring the ships in to the inner walls of the harbour before launching the rowboats, but Jon felt it would give the enemy far too much time to send their own infantry flooding into the city.

“We have no choice!” Jon replied, “If we wait they will fortify the docks and any landing will fail.”

As the captain was about to respond, a shout went up from the bow of the ship.

“Lord captain, ser!” a sailor was yelling. “It's the enemy flag! She's run up a flag of parley.”

Jon made his way to where the man stood. A great galley flying the kraken of House Greyjoy was making its way towards the front line of Reach ships, the one he was on included. “How can you tell it is the flag?” Jon asked the man with confusion.

“The rest of the ships are flying the scythe,” the man replied. “Only the squid commander flies the kraken.”

Lord Redwyne's _Arbour Fist –_ a great war galley comparable to the enemy flag – lurched forward to the front of the blockade.

* * *

The ship began to slow as Jon watched the two flag ships. Quickly noticing the declining speed Jon went back to the wheel where the captain was standing, spyglass in hand. “Why are we slowing? If the parley is true or not, this gives us a chance to land!”

“Message from Lord Redwyne's ship, Lord Hand.” the man said, pointing with his spyglass. “It says you're to make your way there as fast as a rowboat can carry you.”

“Me?” Jon looked confused.

The captain gestured to the hatch leading below deck. “Aye. Flying a white wolf standard with the colours for urgent and the flagship will do the trick. I'll have my best oarsmen row you there.”

Jon felt his stomach lurch. Anger and annoyance took forefront; his people were dying and Sansa was in danger. Why would they want to see him? Likely it was some ploy by the ironborn to taunt him, delay for time.

Still, he would have to see this through.

* * *

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i agonized over how this chapter should go, but i thought in the end it was the best way for the story to keep going. sorry if it is too predicable folks but I promise we are nearing the end of the tale and some goodies will happen I promise. I hope you guys still enjoy this and again sorry for the slow updates <3 
> 
> p.s I know Jon left Ghost with Sansa; don't worry he is fine and will appear in the next few parts!!

“....felt it prudent to listen to her request and signal you, Lord Hand.” Lord Redwyne was explaining as Jon walked across the gangplank to the ironborn vessel, a squad of Reach soldiers at his back.

Jon nodded as he took up position near the gangplank, his eyes darting this way and that as he scanned the ship for threats. Aside from a half-dozen raiders who gazed at him and his escort with weary indifference the ship was practically empty.

Redwyne wrung his hands together. “I....I should tell you, Lord Hand -”

Turning to face the man Jon raised a brow. He almost looked frightened; as though he were not telling the truth. _Was this a trap? Could the Redwynes be in bed with the Greyjoys?_ There was no way, Jon reasoned – the bad blood between the Reach and the Iron Islands ran too deep.

“It's quite alright, Lord Redwyne! You need not say anything.”

Jon watched as a woman strode across the deck, the raiders around them bowing their heads with respect. Theon's sister, he summarized. He had only heard stories of Yara Greyjoy – she was said to be as fierce as any man, and was a seasoned raider and captain in her own right.

Stopping a few feet in front of him she bowed her head. “Jon Snow. So we meet at last!” she exclaimed, offering a smile. “I have to say, your lady cousin chooses well in men. Handsome. Strong – with the blood of Aegon himself. Were I in her place, I may have made the same choice.”

Her appearance was almost casual – too casual for being in the middle of a warzone. “I have come as requested, my lady.” he said, looking around once more. “I know you have come here at the behest of Grey Worm and the Unsullied to bring justice for Daenerys, so if you wish to end this now I am willing to discuss terms.”

Much to his surprise the woman shook her head. “The eunuchs were a means to an end, my lord. I regret having to use them in such a manner – such fighters would have been useful to me in consolidating my power back home – but my true objective was never about you.”

* * *

Jon disliked this almost immediately. A sinking feeling began to grow in his stomach – though he could not put a finger on it. “I must confess my confusion then, my lady. Why sail all this way – gathering such a force – if not for Daenerys? The Queen told me of your desire to avenge her at the Great Council.” he said, folding his arms over his chest.

“All of this is the crux of my plan to bring a new future to my people.” Yara replied, looking out over the battle raging in the waters around them. “One last raid, I told them. One last grasp – and we can begin to move beyond Euron's folly.”

She snapped her fingers and a pair of the raiders disappeared below deck. “Your cousin sits the Iron Throne – or rather, what is left of it. Your other cousin sits the North as a free and independent nation. Something that I vowed – and pledged – to gain from Daenerys. The blood of the Iron Islands has been spilled to see us free.”

Yara looked almost sad as she returned her gaze to him. “Yet our Old Way would not allow us to prosper. It is a dying land that we hold, Jon Snow – and we must move beyond raping and pillaging. Theon – he knew that. Yet he is not here with me to see it accomplished.”

Jon felt a pang of sadness for her at that moment. “Theon...for all of his faults was a brave man. He died to see the Night King destroyed. He was a good man; I regret that he did not return from the fight to be at your side.”

“Lady Stark – sorry, the Queen – tells me you burned him.” Yara asked, “I wish you had saved the body. I...he deserved to be laid to rest in the halls of the Drowned God as our father and brothers have been.” she paused, exhaling softly.

“But...we cannot mourn the past forever. The future of the Iron Islands begins today thanks in part to what we have done.”

The two raiders who had gone below deck returned, bringing a third person – who's hands were bound softly with rope – behind them. Jon nearly choked when he saw the red hair blowing softly in the breeze.

The men guided Sansa to Yara's side. She was unharmed, and kept her head held high in defiance of her captors.

“Sansa!” Jon shouted, taking a step forward. The raiders around Yara drew their weapons and trained them upon him, while his Reach escort did the same. His heart surged with anger, love and rage all at once – the feelings were overwhelming and threatened to make him collapse there and then.

She bit down on her lip when their eyes met, willing herself not to cry. “Jon, do not do anything stupid!” she warned him, holding up her bound hands.

* * *

Yara patted her on the shoulder. “I commend her bravery. She is every bit as defiant and strong as Theon said – the North chose their queen wisely.”

His face growing red with rage, Jon balled his hands into fists so hard that his fingers grew white.

“If you have harmed her -” he began.

Yara shook her head. “I swear to you by the Drowned God that she has not been harmed.”

Sansa looked to her captor. “You knocked me unconscious, remember?” she remarked sarcastically.

“We had to smuggle you out of the New Castle somehow, my lady. Though I assure you that the swelling upon your head will fade in time.” Yara replied, turning her gaze back to the enraged Jon before her. “Now, your betrothed was why I came here – why we came here. So, allow me to lay out what will happen.”

Jon did nothing as she continued to speak. “You will signal your ships to open a hole in their lines allowing me and my remaining ships to leave. From there we will sail to the Iron Islands where Sansa will remain as a guest of House Greyjoy while word is sent to King's Landing. My price for her freedom is the freedom of the Iron Islands.” she explained, “once that has been delivered she will be sent back to White Harbour safe and unharmed.”

“If you think I will allow you to leave this bay with Sansa in tow – you are gravely mistaken.” Jon growled.

Yara sighed, drawing the dagger clipped to her belt and holding it to Sansa's throat. “Refuse or attack us – and I am afraid she dies.”

Sansa did not react to the blade, only shooting a glare towards Yara. “If I die, you die with me.”

“Aye – but then both of us do not get what we desire. My freedom and your beloved.” Yara retorted. “So, what is it to be, my lord? I do not wish any more blood to be spilled then has already – but I will not settle for anything less then the freedom of my people.”

* * *

In that moment Jon could not think. Could not act. Could not breathe.

“Jon, as your Queen I order you to refuse.” Sansa commanded.

_Love is the death of duty._

_Duty is the death of love._

In this moment there was no choice.

Jon turned his head to Lord Redwyne. “Signal the fleet to stand down.”

“Jon!” Sansa shouted again.

Turning his head back to her Jon refused to meet her gaze. “I cannot obey that order, Your Grace. Do...do not order me to watch you die.”

* * *

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told you guys it would pay off somehow! I hope you like it!

Patting Sansa on the shoulder, Yara sheathed her dagger. “Smart man, your betrothed. I can see why you two are so enthralled with one another.” she noted, gesturing to the raiders at Sansa's side. “She won't need the bindings.”

As the ropes around her wrists were cut free Sansa shook her head. “If you think that Bran will allow the Iron Islands to just go without any repercussions...”

Yara nodded. “The boy king has no army. Not truly – gone are the days of facing the united might of the Seven Kingdoms, my lady. Neither our people or your own can afford any more war – as proven by our attack today.”

"Then I suppose you have a better plan in mind.” Sansa's mouth turned upward in a ghost of a smile.

Jon rubbed his forehead, the frustration still plain upon his face. “Release her,” he pleaded, “and take me as your hostage instead. I will bring you a better result, surely.”

“That won't be necessary, Lord Snow.” Yara grinned.

* * *

With one swift fluid motion she brought her dagger from its sheath and ran it across one of the raiders' throat.

As the man gasped out his death rattles the woman moved rapidly, tossing her dagger towards one of the raiders standing near the rail of the ship, catching him in the throat and sending him tumbling over into the water.

Sansa grasped a dagger – seemingly out of nowhere – and ran it across the throat of her other jailer as he drew his weapon, trying to advance upon Yara.

Jon found himself holding Longclaw as the Reach forces advanced over the deck, swarming down into the lower levels where the sounds of battle began to echo across them.

Two of the soldiers held Yara at spear-point, the woman offering no resistance as her crew was cut down around her. Sansa for her part had dropped the dagger she had revealed and was gesturing for the soldiers to stand down.

“Release her.” she commanded. The men looked to Jon as if for guidance.

 

* * *

It felt as though time had stopped. What had just happened? What was the grand-standing made by the ironborn leader, about securing freedom and an independent Iron Islands? Why would she turn on her own people? Jon's mind swam with theories, none of which seemed to make any sense.

“Sansa...what...” was all he could say as she threw her arms around him, planting her lips against his own. The heat from her body stirred him from the malaise, his hands running up and down her body after so long apart.

“Lord Hand, orders?” one of the soldiers asked, their spears still pointed to Yara.

Sansa broke her lips from his and smiled. “Let her go and we will explain.” she whispered, remaining in his grasp as she turned to look at the other woman, who was now rolling her eyes with a playful smirk on her face.

Jon nodded and the spears were lowered. “I would like some answers now, please.” he asked point-blank, still holding Sansa to him as tightly as he could.

It was only a moment before the face fell to the deck of the ship and Arya appeared in the place of where Yara Greyjoy had stood just a moment before.

Jon blinked, shaking his head in disbelief. She looked almost the same as she had the last time he had seen her – when she was preparing to sail west of Westeros, to go where no other sailor had gone before and lived to tell the tale. Her skin was, perhaps darker due to tanning and her hair was longer – down to her lower back – but his beloved little sister was there. Right in front of him.

“Arya?” he choked, throat going dry. “This was all your doing?”

* * *

She shook her head, running a hand through her hair. “Not all of it.” she explained, turning to gaze out at the still raging battle. “I had put in at Lonely Light to take on supplies for the journey west when news of Yara's plans came to me. I knew she would move against the both of you, so I signed up for her crew.” she grinned.

“I got myself onto the team that raided the New Castle and when we brought Sansa back to the ship I kept my promise to cut Yara's throat.”

Sansa let go of Jon briefly, allowing Arya to throw herself at him into a hug. Both of them had tears in their eyes as they squeezed each other tightly; Jon's own sobs were audible even over the waves that struck the ship.

“She told me after she'd taken her face. We had to see Yara's plan through. At least, until time was right.” she said as the pair continued their embrace. “So, I think the ironmen learned a valuable lesson – do not underestimate House Stark.”

Jon looked to the pair. He loved them with all his heart – even more so now. “We still...still have to deal with the rest of the fleet.” he said finally, wiping at his eyes.

“Once they find out about Yara's death I am sure they will stand down.” Sansa offered. “The Unsullied, however – they are another matter.”

Arya scowled. “Fucking eunuchs. They were the ones who wanted you dead.” she said, drawing one of her daggers. “I won't let them hurt you, Jon. No matter what they throw at us.”

Jon gestured to Lord Redwyne – who stood with his mouth agape as if in a daze. “My lord, send a signal to the ironmen that their queen – or queen-to-be – is dead. Signal we will accept terms of surrender from the lord or lords who command in her place.”

“Aye, Lord Hand.” he managed to stammer. “And the eunuchs?”

His face grew tight as he looked to the harbour. “I will give Grey Worm what he wants – a trial by battle.”

Sansa turned to Arya, a playful smirk on her face. “Did you have to draw out your speech as you did? By the gods, Arya – I thought you would never be quiet.”

* * *

That drew a laugh from her. “I had to sell the pompousness of Queen Yara, did I not?!”

Jon shook his head. “You two are unbelievable. Though, I am loath to ask where my wolf is.”

Arya looked to Sansa, who held up her hands in front of her. “Relax, Jon. Ghost is fine. He is with Lord Manderly at the Merman's Court, right where I commanded him to be.”

That brought a sigh of relief to his lips – almost as big as the one he had now that Sansa was free. Jon grasped her by the waist and pulled her against him, kissing her with all of the passion and intensity that he could muster. Not being at her side had made his trip South almost unbearable – and now they were reunited, albeit under unusual circumstances.

She kissed him back with the same force, her hands resting against his chest.

“Can it wait until after we win?” Arya cut in, scoffing with disgust.

 _I suppose it must,_ Jon sighed to himself. _Though it will not be long now._

 

 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> been suffering from a cold the last few days, haven't had much energy to write but I managed to churn this out today. I hope you enjoy it!! We are coming to the climax soon I promise you.

Entering the Merman's Court upon their return to the New Castle, a great cheer went up as the various small-folk, men at arms and other Northerners raised their swords to their Queen's triumphant return.

Ghost – who sat at the side of Lord Manderly on his dais – bounded down to Jon, pawing at him excitedly. “It's good to see you too, boy.” he smiled, scratching the wolf behind his ears.

It had been difficult to leave him behind when he went south – but Jon knew that a direwolf would not do well beyond the borders of the Neck. _At least here he was able to protect Sansa,_ he thought. Even though Sansa had admitted she'd given him to the Manderlys when the siege began.

“My Queen!” Lord Wyman shouted as he pulled himself from his seat. “When we saw you were gone and your guards dead, I did despair.” he admitted wiping sweat from his brow. “I blame myself for the breach.”

Sansa shook her head. “The ironborn wore Stark garb, my lord. They were indistinguishable from our own soldiers. You need not punish yourself.”

* * *

Turning to Jon, the big man offered a bow. “Lord Hand, welcome back!” he patted Jon on the shoulder. “I see our southron cousins have followed through on the desire to defeat the ironmen, eh?” he chortled, “I'm glad that the Reach is finally doing something to benefit the North!”

“The ironmen are in full retreat, Your Grace.” Lord Manderly said with another wide smile. “With their queen dead, Lord Harlaw here has sounded the withdrawal.” he gestured behind him where a plain-looking older man stood flanked by two knights.

Sansa gestured him forward. “Your name and rank, ser?”

The man rubbed at the chains around his wrists. “Rodrick Harlaw, Lord of the Ten Towers, if it please Your Grace.” he offered a small bow of his head. “My niece bid me to lead the fleet while she attempted her...gambit. One I see has failed.” he looked to Arya, who stood at the entrance of the Court with a smirk on her face.

“And the Unsullied?” Jon asked, “Are they withdrawing at your instructions also?”

Harlaw shook his head. “No, Lord Hand. The eunuchs have fortified themselves near your harbour at the...what did my lord call it?” he said, looking to Lord Wyman.

“The Fishfoot Gate.” Manderly answered. “They have taken the gate and are resisting all attempts by our forces to dislodge them. They are disciplined, so it seems.”

He knew what he had to do. Jon's face contorted into a frown.

 _It should have been an option from the start,_ he mused. The Unsullied desired his head; understandably so, given how fanatically loyal they were to Daenerys.

* * *

“Then that is where I will go.”

Sansa rounded on him, grasping him by the hand. “Are you mad? They will fight that much harder if they know you are there with our forces. Let Lord Wylis and the Reachmen handle the Unsullied. You have already risked everything for us, Jon.” she pleaded, reaching out to embrace him tightly.

He kissed her, melting into her touch as he did every time. Were it up to him he would remain here forever if need be, with Sansa at his side. But he knew this would not end until the debt had been settled between the Unsullied and him.

He broke the kiss and ran his hand along her cheek. “I mean to give Grey Worm what he wants. A chance to face me – single combat. Something he's wished for since I drove my dagger into Daenerys's heart.”

Lord Wyman looked almost as concerned as Sansa. “My lord, the eunuchs are not to be taken lightly -”

“I am well aware, my lord. I fought alongside them in King's Landing – I know their strength and what they are capable of.” Jon assured him, “but this is a chance to settle this feud with no more bloodshed on either side.”

* * *

Jon turned to face the imprisoned Lord Harlaw. “Once this is over, my lord – you and your fleet will be free to sail back to the Iron Islands.”

“What is the point?” Harlaw sighed. “Without Yara, there is no hope of building a new future for my people. Like it as not, her beliefs on the Old Way were correct; I fear we will simply destroy one another with infighting once again.”

Sansa strode over to him and squeezed his shoulder. “Now is your chance, my lord. Build the new world that you wish to see. Except with the scythe of Ten Towers as its herald.”

An uncomfortable feeling fell over Jon at those words.

_Build the new world with me._

He suppressed a shudder at the memory. It was one of the last things Daenerys said to him – and the vacant look in her eyes was the clue that he needed to know; she was gone, and in her place was the madness that hung over the Targaryen line.

Yet in Sansa's eyes he saw fairness, firmness and mercy. Qualities a great ruler needs.

Lord Harlaw shrugged, his shoulders slumped. “What can I do, mayhaps? The Greyjoys have been masters of us since the time of Aegon's Conquest.” he lamented, “with Yara's death, Balon's line is now extinct. Save for my sister – shut up in her rooms pleading for the return of her baby boy – the kraken will fly no longer.”

* * *

“Use the leadership and the belief in the future you have, my lord.” Sansa said with a nod. “Drag the ironborn into a new way if you must, but do it before you lose everything as you have already made clear.”

A soldier appeared in front of the gathering, bowing his head. “Lord Hand, your horse is saddled and ready.”

Jon nodded. “This ends today. No more will the Unsullied threaten the North – no more will Targaryen fanatics demand death and destruction for their fallen queen. Live or die – I will see that this ends once and for all.”

Sansa could only watch as he left the chamber, hand on his blade and Ghost at his side.

_Come back to me, my love. The North needs its King as much as I need you._

 

 

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

Jon brought the horse to a halt a few yards from the Fishfoot Gate, now littered with debris and corpses, both Unsullied and northerner alike.

A row of the eunuchs had erected a spear line at the gate proper, and they eyed him with the same murderous hatred that he had come to expect from them – yet they took no action, remaining ramrod stiff with their spears outstretched.

His mind went back to King's Landing – to when he'd seen Grey Worm lead them in a massacre of the Lannister soldiers who had thrown down their weapons and surrendered. He remembered the commander and his skill with a spear, cutting down any who dared cross his path with almost no effort.

The images still haunted him as his own soldiers had followed the Unsullied in their rampage; they'd gone further and vented their rage on the civilians caught in the middle. Jon remembered the dead; women, children, babies. _All at the hands of my men._

A shudder went through his body as the massacre replayed itself in his mind. He remembered being forced to drive his sword through one of his own men because he had tried to attack him – all because Jon had dared to stop him from raping a woman.

_Evil is in all of us._

He also remembered Grey Worm and his execution of surviving Lannister soldiers, even after the horrors of dragon fire and the rampages of the proud men of House Stark. There was nothing in those cold eyes of his – only war and destruction of those Daenerys wished destroyed.

Pulling the helm tight over his head, Jon dismounted the horse and drew Longclaw, holding it with his right hand; his left hand held a shield he'd taken from the New Castle. It was better to be armoured and prepared to face a foe as skilled as this. Even the Valyrian steel he held would not be enough on its own.

* * *

Stepping in front of the horse, Jon eyed the eunuchs at the front of the line once again. “Grey Worm,” he called out, voice echoing around the walls of the gate. “We both know why you have come – to seek revenge for Daenerys – against me, as you wanted all along.”

Jon extended his arms out, the shield pulling his left arm uncomfortably. “Here I stand. I come here to offer you what you have long wished – a chance to avenge her. I offer you battle; you against me. Single combat – no armies at our backs or comrades to protect us. Only our blades, our armour and our skill.”

“There is no need for any more innocent blood to be spilled. Only yours or mine.” he exhaled, tapping Longclaw on the cobblestones at his feet, sticky with dried blood. “We will battle until one of us is dead upon these stones. What say you?”

An uncomfortable silence filled the air as Jon waited. No one at the gate moved or gave any sign of acknowledgement; but he knew that the message had been received. Jon knew he wanted revenge for his Queen – and the offer of combat against him was too tempting to reject.

_You are my Queen._

Jon thought of her once again, unbidden – the thought made him feel the same sorrow and regret he had the same times before that she had come into his mind. He had loved her, once – even pledging to follow her into the seventh hell if need be – but the legacy Daenerys Targaryen left in his mind was one of grief and suffering.

He did not regret ending her life, her twisted reign before it had begun.

He did not regret the feelings he had for Sansa that had taken hold in place of her. She was a just ruler, fair and firm, lawful and moral – a proper Queen as any monarch should be. If any good had come of his involvement in Daenerys's war it was that Sansa now sat as leader of a free North.

_Soon I will sit at her side._

A figure moved to the front of the wall of shields.

Clutching a spear and shield in its hands, the eyes of Grey Worm fixed intently upon him.

* * *

Jon offered a nod, raising his sword towards the commander in preparation. “Once one of us lies dead, no matter who it may be – you, me, or even us both – your men shall leave White Harbour. Your quarrel is not with the North, but with me.”

“I come to bring justice for my queen.” Grey Worm spat. “Your death will bring her peace.”

_So you believe._ Jon's Reach escort held back, locking their shields and raising their spears in an imitation of the Unsullied. Neither side moved as the combatants stared each other down, the only sound being that of their breathing. 

Grey Worm moved first, taking a step forward as he fastened his helmet clasp on his chin. “The Queen loved you and you repaid her with death. I will take pleasure in repaying your new Queen with your death.” 

“You have not won yet,” Jon shot back, doing his best to keep the anger in check. It was clear what Grey Worm was trying to; provoke and anger him into making a mistake, into rashly charging forward or blindly hacking towards him – all the more easier to cut him down. “so save your feelings of pleasure until then.”

Both men took another step forward, and their weapons met with a shattering clash.

 

 

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

Jon felt the clatter of Grey Worm's spear thrusts against his shield as the eunuch commander pressed the attack, forcing him to step back as he held his ground against the onslaught. His arm ached from the half-dozen impacts against the shield and sweat already ran down his face – but he had to conserve his energy for his own attacks.  
  
As the spear clattered off the shield once again, Jon saw his opening and swung Longclaw towards the eunuch's shield. As expected Grey Worm raised his defence, allowing Jon to advance forward – only to find himself ducking as the shield swung towards his face.  
  
Yet even as he went down to dodge the swing, a knee hit him hard in the stomach and he went down, coughing as he felt the air rush from his lungs.  
  
Grey Worm thrust the spear down towards him, looking to impale his stomach but Jon was ready for his attempt, rolling away from the metal. As he drew the spear back for another attack Jon saw his chance and brought Longclaw down on the shaft, cutting the point free of the wood.  
  
“On your feet.” the eunuch growled. “I would rather watch you die standing."

Jon stood up, tossing his shield away. “Still overconfident, I see.” he observed, “You have not won yet, friend.”

* * *

 

  
Drawing his sword, Grey Worm tossed down his shield. The two combatants circled one another, neither man making any attempts to attack as they studied each others strength and stances.  
  
It was the eunuch who struck first, tossing down the wooden shaft that was once his spear and rushing forward in a sprint, taking Jon by surprise – he groaned in pain as he felt the man's elbow hit him in the face, a spurt of blood rushing from his nose. Yet he could not attempt to recover as Grey Worm stabbed down at him wildly.  
  
Jon used his free hand and grabbed his wrist, holding the sword back as Grey Worm grunted and snarled. Despite being gelded and robbed of a man's parts, the Unsullied commander fought with a strength and power that he thought not possible.  
  
_Hate_ , he knew. Grey Worm genuinely believed in Daenerys, and was one of the few men alive who devoted himself to her cause with full and complete zeal. Jon's actions in murdering her had lead to his complete meltdown – as her commander, he felt as though it was his failure that she was allowed to die – and the creature before him was made of rage and mirth.  
  
Pulling apart, Jon launched his own flurry of quick attacks towards his foe's flank, his blows easily parried. As the last blow clanged off Grey Worm's blade he ducked down and launched himself towards the man's stomach.  
  
The pain Jon felt as they crashed to the ground was minimal compared to the elbow to the side of the head he received for his efforts. Yet he'd succeeded in his efforts and both men had lost their blades. Grey Worm rolled away, reaching for his sword but Jon was able to react through the haze, grabbing the back of his tunic and pulling him away from the blade.  
  
Another elbow flew towards his face but Jon was able to avoid it, pulling himself over-top of Grey Worm and slamming his fist down into the man's nose. An audible crunch greeted his blow, yet no cry of pain came from the eunuch's lips even as blood poured from his now broken nose.  
  
He punched again, striking against his cheek. Grey Worm headbutted him, the blow enough to send him sprawling onto his back. The man's head was as strong as cast iron, it seemed.  
  
Having reached his sword first, Grey Worm swung wildly towards Jon as he reacted, rolling away from the blows as he moved for Longclaw. “Stop running and die!” the eunuch shouted, continuing his flurry.  
  
_I have no plans of dying here._  
  
Jon had enough to fight for – a queen waiting for him back at the New Castle, for one. Sansa was his heart, and it had taken him this long to realize it; there was no way he could simply allow himself to fall here and now. Not while his queen required the services he offered as Hand.  
  
Feeling his hand wrap around Longclaw's hilt, Jon brought the blade up and gritted his teeth as the two blades clashed, both men battling to try and overpower the other's parry.

* * *

 

  
“You are a coward,” seethed Grey Worm, spit flying from his mouth. “You kill our Queen in cold blood  and these north men call you a great warrior. Now you fight a warrior and you cannot win.”  
  
Jon could not help but chuckle as he shook his head, not responding further to the man's taunt. Pulling his blade from the clash, he jabbed towards his head as the man ducked, allowing Jon to rise to his feet and step back a few paces as Grey Worm clambered to match him.  
  
Both of them were hurt; blood ran freely from their noses as they panted wildly, Grey Worm's primal and festering hatred still unwavering.  
  
“What would Missandei say? Your quest to avenge the queen has failed.” Jon taunted. He disliked such a cold remark, but he knew it was one way to bring out his foe's anger and – hopefully if the gods were on his side – allow an opening to form he could exploit.  
  
His taunt worked; Grey Worm let out a howl of rage and he rushed forward, swinging wildly as he did so. Jon easily ducked the blows as the man ran past him, but not before he was able to open his belly with the edge of Longclaw.  
  
A trail of blood followed after Grey Worm as the eunuch came to a stop, eyes widening as he looked down at his wound. Parts of his stomach were now visible through the cut.  
  
His blade clattering to the floor as he dropped to his knees, Grey Worm grasped the wound with his hands as he attempted to stem the now steady torrent of blood, his face growing paler by the moment as more of it leaked out onto the cobblestones.  
  
“KILL HIM!” he cried, collapsing down onto his side.  
  
Turning to face the Unsullied ranks Jon opened his mouth – only to close it as a spear flew past him. He made the only decision he could with odds such as he now faced.  
  
He ran.  


* * *

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter one this time. enjoy!

“FOR THE QUEEN!” came the battle-cry from the warriors in front of him.

 _Wait,_ Jon realized. _The eunuchs are behind me._

* * *

Turning in confusion he watched as the thrum of arrows sailed into the Unsullied ranks, felling several of them as they gave chase. The remaining warriors assembled back into a shield-wall formation, trying to identify where the bolts had come from.

A large group of Stark soldiers rushed into view, several of them still loosing arrows upon the enemy ranks. Accompanying them close behind came soldiers of the Reach, their shields and spears locked as they advanced into a protective formation around him.

“Jon!” a voice shouted, “Here!”

_Arya._

A sense of relief washed over him as he saw her leading the counter-attack. As she barked orders to the men – who fell into the same protective formation as the Reachmen – he moved through the sea of warriors towards her.

She crashed into his arms, squeezing him tightly. “I told you I wouldn't let anything happen.” she whispered as he kissed her forehead.

The sounds of battle rang out around them as Unsullied, Northmen and Reachmen fought on, the shouts and screams of the dead and dying echoing in Jon's ears. It reminded him of the sounds he heard in King's Landing – what seemed like a lifetime ago.

He was still wracked with guilt and horror at the events of that day.

Dreams – even now, after his love of Sansa had replaced almost all else – of the slaughter still tormented him from time to time. The pleas of women and children as his men, those who had followed him, the _honourable northerners,_ raped, murdered and pillaged while their Queen rained down death upon all.

* * *

“Jon?” Arya squeezed his hand, noting with concern the glazed over look in his eyes.

His eyes were fixated upon a solitary figure nearby, having crawled into a sitting position propped against a post.

She followed his gaze to where he watched Grey Worm, spitting up blood.

Within moments he stood over the eunuch commander, watching the life drain from his body. Pale and shivering, the man bared his teeth and spat at Jon's approach. “Why do you still t-torment me while our Queen lies dead and forgotten?”

His bowels gave off the stink of shit and death, a smell Jon was all too accustomed with. “I did not want this.” he answered honestly, the sounds of battle starting to fade around them, “but she left me with little choice. As did you.”

“Soldiers obey!” he spat. “Y-you...disgrace t-the memory of our Queen. S-she loved you.”

Arya drew her dagger. “Let me give the gift of mercy.” she looked down at him, “even though he does not deserve it.”

Jon turned away. “My love is with another, now. One who will be far more just and wise of a ruler then Daenerys.” he said, a twinge of regret in his voice.

He had high hopes for the future of his people under a just ruler – but Daenerys had proven herself to be cursed with the same madness that plagued their ancestors for generations before.

* * *

“Commander Strongbeard!” Arya gestured to a Stark man nearby. “Help the Hand back to the New Castle.”

“I can still fight -” Jon protested weakly.

With a groan of pain Jon turned back towards the road leading to the New Castle. His body ached from the intensity of the fight he'd endured and he could still taste the remnants of blood in his mouth – yet he was alive and more importantly, able to return to Sansa as he promised.

_I promised, didn't I?_

* * *

 

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well it's been a wild ride but i hope you guys have enjoyed this story!! I might write up an epilogue later as a bonus chapter but for now I need to rest my nerve-damaged hands!!

The great hall of the New Castle was peacefully quiet and empty, save for the two of them.

Sansa had ordered everyone out upon Jon's return, allowing the two of them to be among themselves once again – and Ghost, of course. The direwolf licked happily at Jon's hand as he ran his hand through his fur.

“I hate that they put me in this position.” Jon said, wrapping his arms around Sansa tightly. “More killing – even if it was Unsullied, was what I was trying to avoid.”

Sansa – who rested her head up against his shoulder – nodded. “I know. But you came through – not just for me, but for all of us.” she whispered reassuringly. “I could not do this without you, Jon. I hope you know that.”

It was his turn to disagree. “No, that is not true.” he shook his head, “You are a far better ruler then I could ever hope to be. I am only happy that I get the chance to be at your side through all of this – even though sometimes I wonder.”

“Wonder what?” Sansa asked, turning to face him. She kissed him softly, her hands squeezing his back.

Looking away Jon sighed. “If I did the right thing. In all truth, if not for you – I would have been happiest to remain at the Wall. No worries about struggles for power and bloodlines. But given the chance to be with you – I could not pass that up.”

The pair sat down on one of the long benches near the Lord's Chair, resting their hands on top of one another. “Forever.” she whispered, pulling his hand up to kiss it. “Maester Wolkan sent a bird from Winterfell. Already some are arriving to prepare for our wedding.”

Jon laughed. “Of course they are. Though...I have to wonder. What will I cloak you with?” It was something he had dreaded since they had agreed to wed; he could not and would not dare use the red and black of House Targaryen. _Fire and blood,_ he mused. It still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Yet he was still Jon Snow, a bastard with no sigil of his own.

“A direwolf.” she smiled, “what else? A fitting symbol for a King.”

* * *

He shook his head. “No. A fitting symbol for a Queen – the Queen.”

Was it foolish of him to believe so strongly in Sansa now? He had once put all of his faith in Daenerys, and that faith and support had been rewarded with nothing but misery and suffering for the people of Westeros. He'd shared a bed with her, too – a voice in the back of his mind continued to whisper how similar the situations were.

Yet Sansa had been right about her all along. She had been right about everything – and he had foolishly ignored her advice to his own peril. It still made him feel absolutely humiliated to have acted as he did – and he would spend the rest of his life making it up to her if he could.

No, she was different. She was not Daenerys – she was a Stark of Winterfell, raised by the same father as Jon.

 _Uncle_ , the dragon within whispered again, to his annoyance. _Do not deny who you are._

_Father. I am of Winterfell and the North. Be silent!_

“The North – and my heart.” he finished with a grin, their lips meeting once again.

Yes, everything would turn out right this time. Jon knew it.

* * *

 

 

 


End file.
